by Val Tobin
“Gabe.” She laughed. “Gabe the babe. It rhymes. I bet I could make a poem with your name. Want me to try?”
“Christ, no.” He gripped her by the upper arm and tried to lead her to the front doors, but she tripped, and he had to support her with both arms. He draped one of her arms around his neck—awkward, considering their height difference—and half-dragged, half-carried, her to the entrance. He fumbled in his pocket for the electronic key and, after further struggle with opening the door, finally had them as far as the lobby. With more effort, he had them in the elevator, where he faced the biggest challenge of his night so far: she threw herself at him, showering his face with kisses.
The mirrors in the elevator showed him in great comic relief fending off her advances. He laughed helplessly at first, but her hands had joined her lips. What she probably thought was hot and sexy turned quickly from comical to sad.
“Kat, quit it. I’ll get you cleaned up, and then you’re going home.”
“You dumped me. I’d do anything for you, Gaby baby. Why don’t you love me?”
“We weren’t ... you’re not ...” He couldn’t manage anything coherent, and what difference would it make anyway? She was well and truly snockered and wouldn’t remember anything he said even an hour from now. He might as well wait until morning and reason with her then. Not that she’d be here in the morning. No way. He realized suddenly how quiet it was. When he looked down at her, she dangled at his side, unconscious.
Glorious.
They reached the penthouse, and he carried her from the elevator and down the hall to his corner unit. As he juggled her—and the purse she’d dropped when she’d passed out—while searching for his keys, his cell phone sounded.
Perfect. He ignored it.
Once he had her in his apartment, he kicked off his shoes in the foyer and carried her to the living room. He set her on the couch in a seated position. Out cold, she toppled over. He wouldn’t be talking to her tonight nor would he be sending her home like this. Cursing, he slipped her shoes off—high-heeled pumps in the damn snow—and carried them to the tiled foyer where he placed them next to his shoes. Next, he removed her coat and set it and her purse on the armchair ninety degrees from the couch. He lifted her legs onto the couch and put one of the decorative pillows from the end under her head. At least it was flat and not one of the puffier ones he had on the sofa in the den.
Who cares? Just let this nightmare be over. When she woke in the morning, they would have a serious conversation.
For the first time since he’d had the place decorated, he regretted the white carpeting. He rushed into the nearby powder room and grabbed a trash bin. It was almost full, so he changed it, and with a fresh bag in it, he set it on the floor below her face. He examined her carefully. She breathed deeply, evenly, which he assumed was a good sign. Strands of her strawberry-blonde hair lay plastered against her cheeks. Her lipstick had smeared, giving her mouth a clownish appearance. He contemplated getting a wet washcloth and cleaning her up a bit but was afraid if he tried that she’d wake up or, worse, wake up and puke.
How long should he let her sleep it off here? He remembered the missed call then and checked his phone.
Terrific. Ellen had called him. He checked for a message and listened to it.
“Hope you made it home okay. Just wanted to say thanks for tonight. See you tomorrow.”
Should he call her back? He glanced at the unconscious woman on his sofa. If he did, would he have to tell her about Katrina? Would he ever have to tell her about Katrina?
Shit. How honest did a man have to be with the woman he probably loved? He considered calling Carl to ask for advice but changed his mind. Talking to Carl right now would come with its own problems.
In the end, Gabriel got Katrina a blanket and a glass of water, covered her with the blanket, and set the glass of water on the coffee table next to her. He left a night light on, and after locking the door to the apartment, he went into his bedroom. In case Katrina woke up and got any ideas about climbing into bed with him during the night, he locked the bedroom door. Satisfied he’d done all he could to safeguard his virtue and his guest’s health, he washed up, got his pyjamas on, and went to bed.
***
“Cat on the balcony.” The voice belongs to a dark-haired man Gabriel should recognize but doesn’t. “She’ll fly.”
Gabriel attempts to stir, but his arms and legs weigh him down. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
Cat got your tongue?
The man outside laughs. A woman, her voice mocking and familiar, jibber-jabbers, then falls silent.
Cat got her tongue.
Whooshing. Whooshing? What whooshes? It must be that drum rolling. Drum. Rolling. A drum rolls across the floor of his living room, but why does it sound like bare floor when he has wall-to-wall carpeting?
Gabriel stirred, the threads of the dream vanishing from his mind, and rolled over. Silence and fatigue lulled him back into another dream, on a beach, ocean waves lapping at his ankles. He has to find a bathroom and …
He roused and opened his eyes. Had he heard something, or was that the dream? He checked the time on his clock radio. Three o’clock. He lay back down and listened to the silence, trying to recall the sound he’d heard—if he’d actually heard a sound and hadn’t dreamt it. A voice? The door? Something about a drum, but that made no sense.
He remembered his guest in the living room.
Better go check on her. The temptation to lie back down and fall asleep again almost had him doing just that, but he needed to take a piss—that dream made sense. He dragged himself up and slipped on his slippers.
Since all was quiet outside his bedroom door, he veered first into the en suite and relieved his bladder. After washing his hands, he’d awakened enough that if he returned to bed he’d just toss and turn, wondering if Katrina was okay. He threw on his robe.
The noise. A sound had awakened him; it hadn’t been part of the dream. Had it? A whoosh.
When he opened his bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, an icy blast of air made him shiver and suck in his breath.
What the hell? She opened the balcony doors? Well, that explains the whoosh. He stormed into the living room, ready to confront her.
She wasn’t on the couch where he’d left her, and as he’d deduced, the balcony doors yawned wide open.
“Katrina?” He strode to the balcony. “Kat?”
No sign of her. Had she left? The thin layer of powdery snow showed someone had walked to the railing, but the footprints had been obscured into a smooth, powdery trail. Still, he could see they weren’t made by the small, delicate feet he’d removed shoes from the night before. He tiptoed in his slippers to the railing; his feet disturbed the snow, but he stayed far away from the original trail, a sensation of horror growing in the pit of his stomach.
He peered over the edge at the pool of streetlight splashing the walkway beneath his balcony. On the sidewalk, a woman lay on the ground, her body contorted, but he recognized the dress. Katrina’s head was twisted to the side, and her arms and legs splayed out on the pavement.
Gabriel went inside to call 911.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday morning Ellen arrived at the office in high spirits. She’d slept in but had made up the time by skipping breakfast and leaving the television off. That oversight began to haunt her the moment she stepped into the lobby and discovered the company receptionist, Karen, sobbing at her desk.
Ellen hurried to the woman’s kiosk. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Karen met Ellen’s gaze with a grimace of anguish. “Haven’t you heard? Katrina’s dead, and they’ve got Gabriel at the police station. They think he might have killed her.”
Ellen staggered, and if she hadn’t grabbed onto the kiosk’s counter, she’d have fallen. “What do you mean? Are you sure? How’d you hear this?”
Why hadn’t she turned on the news this morning? She usually did, but she’d been in
such a wonderful mood and in such a rush to get to work she’d skipped the depressing reports.
“I got a call from his assistant. She heard from Gabe’s lawyer.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing. Just not to talk to reporters.”
“Have you heard from reporters?”
Commotion at the entrance answered her question. A cluster of people with microphones and cameras pressed their way into the building. Ellen rushed to the elevators as security approached the scrum. She pressed the button repeatedly, futilely trying to hurry the car that would take her up to her office and away from any questions she couldn’t answer.
Her heart thudding in her chest and her knees shaking, Ellen shut herself into her office and booted up her computer.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered at it. As she waited, she checked her phone for missed calls or messages. Nothing. She surfed to the browser on her phone and checked the daily news.
Details were sketchy. A woman’s body had been found on the street below Gabriel’s apartment building. They didn’t specify who found her or how she’d died, but they reported the death as suspicious. All the reports she checked mentioned police had taken in a person of interest for questioning but hadn’t laid charges. None of the reports identified the woman or the suspect.
But the news was obviously out now, or the reporters wouldn’t be downstairs in the lobby.
Frantic, Ellen tried Gabriel’s cell phone, but as expected, it went to voicemail. She left a message for him to call her. She recalled Detective Morris’s card and retrieved it from her wallet. He’d know something.
Fingers shaking, Ellen punched in his number. When she got only his voicemail, she burst into tears.
***
“Tell me again how Miss Weever ended up in your apartment.” Detective Morris spoke in a conversational tone, but his expression showed suspicion and disbelief, and this was the third time he’d launched this question at Gabriel.
“I’ll cover it as many times as you like, but the facts won’t change,” Gabriel said. “She was outside my building when I arrived home.”
“In your car?”
“Walking—as I said the other two times I explained this to you.” He gave a frustrated sigh, but he understood the exercise they did. No problem. His story wouldn’t change because he stuck to facts. “She was drunk.”
“You went with her to your place after the two of you went drinking?”
“No.”
“Take it back a bit. Where were you coming home from?”
The interrogation room was cold and sparsely furnished. A metal table with a chair on each opposing side offered the only breaks from the tiled floor, and a two-way mirror adorned one of the puke-green brick walls.
Morris had given Gabriel water to drink, and he helped himself. They’d probably use it later to get his fingerprints and DNA, but he didn’t care. At least they hadn’t charged him with anything, which would be an alternative way of getting his prints.
He’d insisted on calling his lawyer, and they’d let him, but the lawyer wasn’t in the room with him. If they charged Gabriel with anything later, he didn’t want the lawyer to be disqualified from representing him, something Canadian law allowed. Gabriel told the man to call BRI to tell them what had happened so Ellen would know. He hoped she’d realize he’d had nothing to do with Katrina’s death. Surely, she wouldn’t assume ...
Please, Ellen, don’t assume.
Gabriel sighed and started his story from the time he and Ellen had left the Italian restaurant. “She left in the rideshare, and I walked home. When I arrived at the front entrance to my apartment building, I found Katrina waiting for me, and she was plastered.”
“This is where I’m fuzzy on the whole thing, Gabe. Can I call you Gabe?”
“No.”
Morris frowned. “All right. Mr. Duncan. Tell me why you’d take an obviously sloshed woman into your apartment.”
“I didn’t want to send her home alone in a cab with a stranger in that condition. She was close to blackout drunk from the look of it. She’d be in danger. Who the hell knows what could’ve happened to her if I’d let her go home alone?”
“Look what happened to her when you didn’t.”
Gabriel scowled and the flush of rage flooded his face. “I didn’t hurt her. She was safe with me, but I don’t think she went over the balcony on her own.” This was the first time he’d said his greatest fear out loud. Until now, he’d been too afraid to voice it. Anger had loosened his tongue, and Gabriel hoped he hadn’t made a colossal error.
“Well, now, why would you say that?”
Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up—not that he’d had a chance to shower and make himself presentable before he’d called the cops. No, he’d seen Katrina down there and had immediately called 911. By the time the police arrived, he’d thrown on some clothes and brushed his teeth, but that was all.
“My apartment door was unlocked when I went to answer it to let the police in.”
“You left it unlocked all night?”
“No. I locked it before I went to bed. Either Katrina unlocked it and let someone in, which means it was someone she knew, or someone broke in.”
“You don’t have a security system?”
“I didn’t engage it. I didn’t want Katrina to get up in the night and accidentally trigger it if she left.” He’d regret that for the rest of his life. He should’ve just set the alarm and risked an accidental jolt out of bed when she—or whoever—opened the door.
“There’s something else.” He swallowed. “A trail led to the balustrade, but it wasn’t distinct footprints. I avoided it when I went to look over the railing, so my path to and from the edge is distinct. Detective, the first trail is a mess, as if someone mussed it up to hide the footprints or as if someone dragged her out there. She wouldn’t have jumped. Not her. And if she woke up and found herself in my apartment, why didn’t she wake me? I half-expected her to try to climb into bed with me if she awoke in the night. That would’ve been more in character—she’d have at least tried. I even locked my bedroom door so she’d have to knock and wake me up if she wanted to talk to me.”
Morris remained silent as Gabriel’s words sank in. “Maybe, she tried. Maybe, you didn’t like that so much and decided you wanted her out of your life permanently. Nothing you’ve said exonerates you. It could mean you planned this out.”
“I planned this out? How? If I’d planned it out, I wouldn’t have invited Ellen back to my place. The only reason she wasn’t there when Katrina appeared is because it was Monday night, and she said she wanted to go home. I had no idea Katrina was out there waiting for me. Check the surveillance video, for Christ’s sake. You’ll see how it happened.”
He went on the offensive. Enough of this bullshit. “Why aren’t you doing that right now? Why aren’t you getting evidence from my apartment? Cameras sit at every entrance on that building. Whoever was in my apartment would’ve been picked up coming and going.” Unless whoever it was lived in the building, but what were the odds of that?
“Don’t worry about the investigation, Mr. Duncan. We’re getting all the evidence we need.” He gave Gabriel a look that said whatever they got would verify he’d killed Katrina.
Gabriel decided he’d helped the investigation all he could, and it was time to go. He stood. “You gonna charge me with something? I’ve got work to do. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.” Fake politeness dripped from every word, and an expression of unconcern settled on his face.
Morris also stood. “Don’t leave town. I’ll probably call you before you call me.” His tone and expression left no doubt he meant it.
Chapter Eighteen
Reporters clustered outside his apartment, and Gabriel avoided them by taking a rideshare to the office and having the driver drop him in the underground parking. From there, he used the elevator to go up to the third floor where the BRI offices were. Without stopping at
his office, he went straight to Ellen’s. The door was closed, and when he knocked, he heard nothing. He tried the door and found it locked. He almost turned away and left, but something told him to call out to her.
“Ellen? You in there?”
The door flew open within seconds.
When he saw her appearance, he took a step back, shocked at her red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair.
“Gabe. Oh, God.”
Because she looked so unsteady on her feet and close to tears, he gently nudged her into the office and closed and locked the door behind them.
“They didn’t charge me,” he began, “and I came here as soon as they released me.”
She didn’t reply, just stared at him through huge, terrified eyes.
“I want to tell you what happened.” He remembered her text from the night before, how happy and carefree it had sounded. He kept his voice gentle, as though dealing with a frightened puppy. “Can we sit? Talk? Will you do that for me?”
She nodded. Since the office was small, with just a desk, three chairs and a file cabinet, he guided her to the two chairs in front of her desk. She eased slowly into one, and he took the other.
Gabriel started talking immediately, keeping his voice low and calm. Bit by bit, he told her everything that had happened the night before from the moment he arrived at his apartment building to the moment he found Katrina’s body down on the sidewalk. She listened without interrupting him, and he didn’t know if that was a good sign. Her eyes remained large and terrified throughout his narration, her hands wringing and twisting in her lap.
“I called the police, and they questioned me for hours. Detective Morris suspected I threw her from the balcony, but he couldn’t hold me. They have no proof I hurt her.”
