Bell to Pay

by Jeremy Waldron

  “Let’s just get this over with so we can get back to solving the murders no one but us care about,” Alvarez said as he looked to King.

  King rang the doorbell, surprised there was no security beyond the technology he could feel watching them through the lenses of hidden cameras that were probably mounted on every corner of the house. King silently agreed with his partner—he also preferred working cases no one else gave a rat’s ass about. He thought about the black child who was murdered last night and would much rather be seeking justice for him than being called out here where money controlled city resources.

  The door opened. “Ms. Wild?”

  One eye blinked between the crack in the door. “Yes.”

  “We’re homicide detectives King and Alvarez with Denver PD.” King held up his badge for Rose to see. He watched her check it for authenticity. “You wanted to speak with us about your boyfriend’s death?”

  Rose nodded her porcelain head and opened the door further. She was wearing a cranberry colored silk robe over her jeans and tee.

  “Did you invite these protestors to the house?” Alvarez pointed over his shoulder.

  Rose’s ponytail swished across her shoulders as she shook her head. “They started showing up as soon as word spread about Donny’s death.”

  “Let’s talk about that. May we come inside?” King politely asked.

  Rose signaled for them to enter.

  Alvarez glanced over his shoulder one last time before shutting the door behind him. He was the last to enter. It was quiet inside and provided a nice buffer to the shouts that were certain to have unsettled the entire neighborhood. Disturbance calls were probably flooding dispatch as they spoke.

  “Thanks for coming out so quickly,” Rose said over her shoulder as she glided into the living room.

  “We’re sorry to hear about your boyfriend,” King said, noting the towering ceilings and large windows that made him feel smaller than his six foot two frame.

  “Fiancé.” Rose held up her hand and pointed to the diamond ring that looked like it cost more than King’s house. “Rumors are spreading that simply aren’t true,” she insisted.

  “What rumors would those be?”

  “Please. Have a seat.” Rose pointed to the sectional sofa couch. Alvarez took the corner but King chose to remain standing. “People are saying my Donny wasn’t who he said he was.”

  Alvarez flashed King a hard glance. King knew his partner was already feeling annoyed by the call, but the way Rose was speaking about her fiancé must have been killing Alvarez. King turned his gaze back to Rose, unable to decide if it was a look of anger or devastation that had her motivated to seek revenge for Donny’s sudden death.

  “I’m sorry,” Alvarez said, turning his attention back to Rose, “but I was under the impression you called us here to investigate your fiancé’s death.”

  King listened as he looked around the house. There were zero photographs of Rose and Donny. The walls consisted mostly of expensive paintings that were way above King’s pay grade. But, more importantly, he didn’t see any signs that a crime had been committed. The house was neat and orderly, lived in. Something wasn’t adding up.

  “You said you believed Donny was murdered.” King locked eyes with Rose. “What makes you say that?”

  Rose wet her lips before saying, “As you can imagine, not everyone liked Donny. Yes, despite what you may think, he had enemies.” She nodded. “I know, hard to believe, right? But not everyone liked how quickly he made his money.”

  “And who are these enemies of Donny’s?”

  “Donny was being followed, watched, and investigated by several reporters.”

  King titled his head to the side. “Investigated for what?”

  “For being a fraud.”

  “And was he?”

  “Of course not. Donny was an honest person. But people have been wanting what Donny worked so hard to achieve since they first learned of his success. You see, part of Donny’s success is because of the way the media treated him. But then, after he started making serious money, they turned on him.”

  “These reporters you said were following him, do you have names?”

  Rose nodded. “It’s a reporter from the Colorado Times.”

  Alvarez turned his head to King. King was still staring at Rose. He feared Rose was about to name-drop his girlfriend and wondered if Rose knew he was dating Samantha. King couldn’t help but feel like Rose was playing some sort of sick game, but he kept his mind open, hoping that she would soon reveal some concrete information they could actually use.

  “Can you tell us who that is?”

  “I’d rather not.” Rose twisted the engagement ring around her finger.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m afraid.” Her hand stopped moving. “Afraid of what they already know, and what they’ll do to me to get what they want.”

  “Without a name, there really isn’t much we can do for you, Ms. Wild.”

  Rose’s spine straightened. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. Then she continued, “This is what I can say. The reporter who I’m referring to wanted Donny dead.”

  “And why would a reporter want your fiancé dead?”

  “Because Donny refused to pay them, and since Donny didn’t give into their demands, they wanted the money in Donny’s exchange to forever be locked away.”

  King hid his hands inside his pants pockets and asked, “Are you saying this reporter from the Times blackmailed your fiancé?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alvarez shook his head, “but what money are you referring to?”

  Rose explained the digital currency exchange Donny started and as King listened to Alvarez get caught up, he fumbled inside his pocket and took out the key code from Thompson’s house to show to Rose.

  “Is this a digital wallet that can be found on Donny’s exchange?”

  “That’s a joke right?” Rose’s laugh was small, cynical. “Donny’s exchange moved money around daily using codes just like that.”

  King flipped the code around and looked at the string of text. “The funny thing about these digital wallets is that there is no name to identify who it belongs to.”

  “No, there’s not.” Rose grinned. “And that right there is why people are attracted to blockchain technologies. It’s impossible to trace an identity back to that code.” Rose held out her hand and asked, “May I have a look?”

  King handed the paper over when Alvarez asked more about what happened before Donny was taken to the hospital. After staring at the key code for a lengthy pause, Rose lifted her eyes, and said, “It happened so quickly. At first I thought Donny was joking. Finally, I realized he wasn’t and his confusion was real. Then he dropped to the ground over there,” she pointed to the empty carpeted space, “and had a seizure.” Rose dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “He never responded after that.” She choked up. “He was barely alive when he arrived at the hospital.”

  “Forgive me, Ms. Wild, but I’m not seeing a crime,” Alvarez said. By the look on Alvarez’s face, King knew his partner was only hearing blame.

  Rose gave him a hard look before leaving the room.

  “Jesus, John, you couldn’t have put it a little nicer?” King shook his head in disbelief. “The young woman is mourning.”

  Alvarez flipped his palms up and shrugged. “What? Do you see a crime in anything she has told us?”

  “That’s not my point.” King’s expression hardened.

  A minute later Rose was back in the room holding a small electronic device in one hand. She handed it to King. King inspected it and asked, “What’s this?”

  “That is how Donny died.”

  Alvarez stood and requested to see it himself. “An insulin pump?”

  “That’s right.” Rose crossed her arms and held her chin high. “Look into it. A crime has been committed. I’m sure of it. And when you get the chance, ask Joey Garcia at the Times if
he recognizes that key code.” Rose turned her narrow eyes on Alvarez. “Then come back here and tell me my Donny wasn’t murdered.”

  Chapter Forty

  I paused mid-step and glanced once more over my shoulder in the direction of Garcia’s desk with my head still spinning. He caught me looking on his way out and paused. “We should get a drink sometime. Just you and me.”

  “Sure,” I said, watching Garcia smile and head to the exit.

  I had never had a drink with him before, that I could recall, and never had seen him outside of work without his wife being there as well. The whole invitation seemed to be as odd as his behavior. I couldn’t make sense of it.

  Garcia appeared deflated, like he’d given up. It could have been Katie’s health that was dragging him down, and I wouldn’t blame him for that, but something had me questioning if there could be something else going on that had him feeling sunken.

  As soon as I entered my own cubical, I set my bag on top of my desk and fired up my computer. It loaded without issue, and I immediately pushed in the thumb-drive Garcia gave me. As I waited for it to load, I thought about what he said about Counts running his exchange like a Ponzi scheme. It was the first I’d heard of it, but because Counts had a history with Josh Stetson, I didn’t doubt it being possible. It certainly would fit the mold of what I already knew.

  Several dozen folders populated my screen, each clearly labeled by sources names, dates, and headline stories. I dove into my work with zealous focus with the intention of learning who might be watching me.

  Who wanted these two men dead? More importantly, who also wanted me to take the fall with them? Those were the two questions I kept asking myself as I began my search.

  There was more here than just Counts and Thompson, but I went straight to digging into what Garcia had on Donny Counts first. Garcia had more information on him than I believed possible. Mostly good, boring details of Counts’s rise to the top and the celebrity he became. But then I came across a folder for Donny’s exchange.

  I clicked it.

  It opened.

  But nothing was there.

  I fell back into my chair and stared at the empty folder wondering what happened to the documents inside—if there ever were any. The noises coming from the desks around me soon disappeared as I drifted deeper into my thoughts. Garcia was one of the best, but maybe this empty folder was a mistake?

  The key code flashed behind my eyelids as I thought about the paper wallet found with Thompson along with my story about him. Was that the clue to tell me that Counts was next to die?

  Charity fraud.

  A Ponzi scheme.

  And Loxley’s warning about people’s insatiable greed.

  It was all there, spinning around, slowly coming together to form a single bond.

  Taking a pen between my fingers, I leaned forward and began making notes, comparing the two victim’s lives, trying to find a common denominator that could link them both to Loxley.

  Over the next half-hour, one by one, I connected the dots.

  Both men were extremely wealthy. Both had a reputation of giving back to their communities. There was a difference in age between the two, and a slightly different road to success, but, most striking of all, both appeared to be hypocrites. They spoke highly of themselves but lied to the people they said they were trying to help.

  I thought about Loxley once again, asking myself how he could know so much.

  I couldn’t get his name out of my head. Was that what this was all about? Knocking these men off because they weren’t who they said they were? There had to be more to it than just that, but what was it? Was Loxley jealous of their success? Did he know them personally?

  My thoughts rolled around my head like marbles.

  I swept my gaze away from my paper and watched as the room suddenly got brighter.

  Then I had a thought.

  Robin of Loxley.

  “Robin Hood and Little John. That’s it,” I said to myself, lunging forward and typing up a quick internet search.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. It was so ridiculously obvious I should be ashamed of myself. And I was. Because Robin Hood was a self-proclaimed vigilante fighting the rich and working for the poor, just like Loxley made me believe he was doing. Except the legend told a story of giving back to the poor. As far as I knew, Loxley hadn’t given anything back.

  I continued my search, looking for more insight into the legend of Robin Hood. Then I turned to Real Crime News’s message board to see if Loxley, or LilJon, assuming they were the same person, had posted again. There was nothing, but I quickly got sucked down a rabbit hole that led me nowhere fast. Not wanting time to get away from me, I packed up my bag, deciding it was time I learned how Counts died and why.

  I closed up shop, gathered my things, and stopped by Garcia’s desk on my way out to return his thumb-drive. I got what I needed, and I was sure Garcia would happily let me borrow it again if I asked.

  I found his cubicle empty but a flier on his messy desk for an event at Metropolitan State University caught my eye. I didn’t mean to be nosy, but I walked closer to get a better look. The keynote speaker’s name had been circled with Garcia’s scribbled chicken scratch next to it. But what left me both frightened and confused was why Garcia had written my name next to Parker and Joan Collins’ names. What was he up to? Why did he want to involve me?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Loxley circled Parker Collins’s parked BMW, raking the tips of his fingers over the white paint as he walked. He was amused that his next victim was paying his respects to Loxley’s first. Nothing felt better than knowing the two of them were getting together for their last goodbye.

  The gulls squawked overhead and everything around him disappeared. The protestors’ shouts drifted off in the wind. The planes flying overhead didn’t make a sound. His steps were slow and deliberate when suddenly the chorus inside erupted into a powerful and emotional song that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  American Grace.

  Loxley stopped and turned his head toward the church. Peering through the front, open doors, he thought how nice it would be to see the entire building ignite in a fan of hot flames.

  A small, deep chuckle rumbled its way up his chest.

  With the people he knew to be inside—wealthy people who had traded their souls to the devil himself—he wouldn’t put it past divine intervention to do his job for him. But he knew better, knew that it was up to people like him to do God’s work for Him. It was why he was placed on Earth—his calling from above.

  A sharp smirk curled his lips.

  It was a nice, dangerous thought to imagine the people inside burning, but not the type of activity he was interested in doing himself. Perhaps he’d get lucky and one of the protestors from the street would start the fire for him.

  Loxley continued walking, circling Parker’s vehicle. The stones crunching beneath the soles of his shoes, scraping over the asphalt below. Stopping near the front passenger window, he glanced around. When he was certain he was alone and no one was watching, he brought his hands to his brow and peered through the tinted glass window, peeking inside at the controls.

  It was a 2019 BMW 7 series—one of two vehicles he knew Parker preferred to drive—and a model Loxley was familiar with. He’d never driven one himself, but he would have liked to someday. It was a luxury car—a noticeable one at that. A car that made a statement. He appreciated Parker’s choice in wanting to drive a newer car—a vehicle with computer systems that controlled nearly every aspect of the car’s engine. When it mattered, that was what Loxley was after—the computers.

  “Greed kills!” a man yelled while thrusting his sign into the air.

  Loxley backed away from the car and turned to stare at the approaching protestor. Loxley smiled, loving the drama. He couldn’t have planned it any better himself, but it certainly added to the flair that would become Richard Thompson’s final day above ground, and maybe
Loxley’s legacy too.

  “Greed kills!” the man shouted again when locking eyes with Loxley.

  How appropriate, Loxley thought, liking how he was just another face in the crowd of many. Nothing suspicious here.

  Stuffing his hands inside his pants pockets, Loxley walked away with a grin spreading across his face. Heading back to where he parked, not more than fifty yards from Parker’s car, he dipped inside his own vehicle and fired up his laptop.

  Resting the computer on his thighs, he used his cellphone as a WiFi Hotspot. As he waited for a signal, he browsed the Twitter mob busy attacking Donny’s and Richard’s characters. It had exploded since the last time he’d checked, the rumor growing even larger.

  “Donny Counts faked his own death?” Loxley laughed. “Wonderful.” He smiled. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  There was nothing better than a conspiracy theory to keep the public occupied while he planned his next murder. Soon, his thoughts drifted to Samantha Bell and wondered why she seemed to have gone quiet after the letter he’d sent her last night.

  A pang of loneliness stabbed his side. Pursing his lips, doubt fell over him. It was uncharacteristic of him to lose confidence, but when it came to Samantha, Loxley grew weak. She was his crutch, the one person he would do anything for. He hoped he hadn’t scared her off. That wasn’t his intention. He needed her to play along, to see him for who he truly was. He wasn’t a monster. He was a crusader. And keeping track of his favorite reporter’s thoughts and movements was one of his top priorities. All Loxley wanted was to be seen by her.

  The internet signal connected and Loxley opened his software program and got to work.

  He knew Samantha would be attempting to connect the dots, put the pieces of the puzzle together, but had he given enough of a clue to point her toward Parker Collins? He wasn’t confident he had. Nothing had been written since the Thompson story broke and that concerned Loxley. Maybe he should give her a push?

  A twitch between his legs had him sucking in his bottom lip.

  Surprised to find himself with an erection, Loxley was in heat. There was only one cure to get him to relax. He needed to draw blood, needed to bring Samantha into his world and feel her touch. If she didn’t respond to last night’s letter, he would have to find another way to get her attention. And he had just the idea to do it. But first, he had a job to complete.