Couldn't Cheat Death

by A. P. Eisen

  Not as weird as you might think, my friend. Paul kept his thoughts to himself and rolled his neck. “I’ll go see if Amy is outside.”

  He opened the door to find a woman sitting in the small waiting area Cliff had set up for their purposes.

  “Ms. Parsons?”

  She nodded and stood.

  “Follow me, please.” He allowed her to pass in front of him. In her midforties, Amy Parsons didn’t try to hide her age behind artfully applied makeup and trendy clothing. She was a strong, no-nonsense-looking, plain woman with gray sprinkled through her dark hair and blunt-tipped fingers that hadn’t seen a manicure in years.

  “Thank you for waiting.”

  Rob stood when Amy entered and gave her his trademark friendly grin. Paul was usually the bad cop to Rob’s good cop.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Parsons. I’m Detective Rob Gormley with the Thornwood Park Police Department. My partner, Paul Monroe, and I are investigating the murder of Jerry Gregoria. Please have a seat.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you both around the hotel the past few days.” She sniffled and pulled out a crumpled tissue from her pocket. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “You knew Jerry well?”

  Her tear-filled eyes met Paul’s. “Not that well, but I still considered him a good friend. He helped me with Mason.”

  “Mason is your son?” Recalling that she had a special-needs child, Paul proceeded with care. At her nod, he continued. “How did he help you?”

  “Mason loves to go to the park, but when I was on shift I couldn’t take him. If Jerry wasn’t working, he would offer, and they’d go on the swings and the slide. Mason loves the playground.” She blew her nose. “I haven’t broken it to him yet that Jerry isn’t coming anymore.”

  “That must be hard,” Rob sympathized, while Paul reread some of the statements.

  “You’ve been a bartender here how long?”

  “About five years.”

  “Oh, so longer than Jerry.”

  “Yes. He came two years ago, and I trained him.”

  “You must’ve done a very good job. He was certainly popular.”

  Her steady gaze met his. “Jerry was charming, and he knew how to flirt to get the best tips. But that’s part of the job.”

  True. “Ms. Parsons, did you ever see Jerry arguing with anyone?”

  “Well, I heard he—”

  “No, not secondhand news. Something you saw yourself. Perhaps at the bar or that he personally mentioned?”

  Her back stiffened. “Jerry and I didn’t work together much for the last year. He had the evening weekend shifts while I took the midweek lunch and afternoons. So our paths didn’t cross, aside from when he would come by to take Mason to the park. But I’m not telling tales. Everyone heard the arguments he had with that woman and the young man.”

  “Ms. Parsons, did you and Jerry ever have an intimate relationship?”

  A deep-red flush crept up her face, and Paul thought he saw her eyes flicker, but it could’ve been a trick of the light, as she barked out a laugh.

  “Do I look like Jerry’s type?” She smoothed her hands over her lined cheeks. “He was into the young, skinny girls with fake boobs and hair. Obviously, that’s not me. We were friends and coworkers. That’s all.”

  “Very good. Can you tell us where you were the afternoon of the murder at around five, five thirty?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost primly. Fully recovered now, she sat with her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap. “I was with Mason at the park.”

  “Do you have any witnesses who could testify to you being there? Aside from your son, of course.”

  “I bought Mason an ice cream from the truck that comes there all the time.”

  “And what time would that have been?”

  “A few minutes to five.”

  “You remember the time so clearly?” Paul cocked his head, and she gave him a thin smile.

  “I do, because it was late and Mason was asking when he’d get his treat. The truck usually comes at three thirty, but that day the driver told me he’d had a flat tire, so it threw him off schedule.”

  “I see.” He made a note to check out the ice-cream-truck driver.

  “Thank you, Ms. Parsons. You’ve been helpful. If we need you again, we’ll call you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you catch whoever did this. Jerry may have been a flirt, but he was a good person.” She brushed her hair off her face, stood, and started toward the door.

  “Ms. Parsons, before I forget,” Paul called out, and she stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you get?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  He smiled at her. “From the ice-cream man. What did you get?”

  “Oh.” She smiled back. “A cherry ice pop. That’s Mason’s favorite.”

  “Nothing for yourself?”

  “No. No sweets for me.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly, and she nodded and left.

  Rob waited a few seconds. “What the heck was that about? What ice cream did you get?”

  “Just making sure all the loose ends are tied up.” A check of his phone showed the time to be five thirty. “Looks like it’s quitting time for now.”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow? Who do we have left?” He loosened his tie.

  “Some of the staff, and then I’m going to want to check out the other bartenders and the ice-cream-truck guy.”

  “Yeah. We can divvy up the work if you want. Make things go faster.”

  “Sounds good. So what do you think so far?” This was the part he liked best about investigations—when he and Rob could sit and go over their day, comparing notes and running theories by each other.

  “I think we have a guy who pissed off a lot of people and got himself offed because of it.”

  “Possibly.” Paul stretched out his legs. “It’s the most likely scenario. I think about what one of my criminal-justice professors in college used to say. He was a retired LAPD cop, and his theory was: Cui bono? Who benefits? Who benefitted from Jerry dying, or was it merely a crime of passion by a jilted lover?”

  Rob scratched at his pad with his pen. “Too early to say. And we’re going to have to talk to a lot more people before we can find that out. Our Jerry was quite the man.”

  Endless hours of questioning stretched out before his eyes and made his head ache. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They shut the door to the room behind them and walked through the hallway to the lobby, where they stood for a moment, observing people. Any one of them could potentially be a murder suspect, Paul thought. Everyone has secrets they’d like to keep hidden.

  “Got anything going on tonight?” Rob asked. “Want to come over for dinner? Annabel told me to ask you.”

  That would be the third time Annabel had invited him, and Paul hated to keep turning her down.

  “Another time? I’m meeting Cliff Baxter for dinner.”

  “Baxter? The hotel manager?” Rob’s brows drew together. “Man, Bulldog, take a night off. Start fresh in the morning.” He shook his head. “All work and no play makes Paulie-boy a grouch.”

  He allowed himself a smile. “It’s fine. We’re combining the two.”

  At Rob’s questioning glance, Paul explained, “Cliff was my brother’s best friend, so we sort of knew each other. We’re going to catch up.”

  “Sounds good. Okay, we’ll make it another time, then.”

  “Definitely.” A promise Paul knew he’d have to keep. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Annabel thanks.”

  “Will do.” Rob gave him a pat on the shoulder and breezed through the front doors of the hotel, leaving Paul standing alone.

  He strode over to the front desk and greeted Preston.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Cliff Baxter.”

  “Oh yes, Detective. Mr. Baxter is expecting you. Do you know the way, or would you like me to take you to him?�
�� He blushed and fluttered his eyes, but Paul ignored his flirtation.

  “I’m good,” he said, a little brusque but not unkindly. “I know the way.” He didn’t wait for an answer and followed the increasingly familiar path to Cliff’s office.

  “Come on in,” Cliff answered at his knock.

  “Hi, am I interrupting?”

  With a wide smile, Cliff waved him in. “Please. God, no. Come in and rescue me. If I have to take one more call from an irate guest about the air conditioning blowing too hot or too cold or how they don’t feel safe now that a murder happened in the hotel’s parking lot…” He blew out an exasperated breath as Paul slid into the seat across from him. Cliff might sound frustrated, but Paul could admire his polish after being at work all day.

  “Less safe? Even though two detectives have been on-site for the past two days?”

  Cliff rolled his eyes. “Right? But try explaining that to a guest who only wants to get something for free. God, I need a drink.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Are we still doing this tonight, or are you too whipped?”

  “No. Please.” Cliff’s answer came so swiftly, Paul laughed.

  “Okay. I’m ready to leave if you are.”

  “So damn ready. Let’s go.”

  Paul followed Cliff, admiring the view from behind.

  “Sorry for complaining. I know you’ve been locked away all day interrogating people.”

  “Questioning,” Paul reminded him, and couldn’t help but poke Cliff in the back, causing him to jump.

  “What?”

  “I told you, it’s not the same. Questioning is where we try and draw out information. We can be nice to get people to open up to us. Interrogation is intense and pretty relentless. We’re not so nice. Trust me, you’d know if I was interrogating you.”

  Something dark flashed in Cliff’s eyes, and a corresponding tug of lust curled in Paul’s belly. And lower.

  But Cliff merely smiled and said, “I’m sure I would,” and left it at that.

  They walked past the front desk, where Cliff wished the staff good night and then pushed open the door to the parking garage. He stopped by a coupe parked under the sign that read Hotel Manager. A car occupied the spot where they’d found Jerry’s body. The floor had been power-washed of the blood, and it was as if nothing had ever happened. Life went on.

  “Good perk.” Paul smiled. “I’m over in the corner. How about I follow you?”

  “Sounds good. Take my address in case we get separated.”

  “Okay.” He pulled out his phone and entered Cliff’s address. “Nice part of town.”

  “I wanted a place where I could get away from the downtown area. I spend enough time here every day.”

  Paul understood. Every once in a while he thought about getting a small house where he could barbecue on the weekends and have a bit of green space. He hated waiting for elevators to get outside and wanted a bit more room than his apartment afforded him.

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  He walked over to his car, stopping when the sight of two flat tires greeted him.

  “Fuck,” he spit out. Without even needing to check, Paul knew the other two tires were flattened as well, but he walked around to check anyway and saw the words keyed on the passenger door:

  DIE COP

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cliff sat in his car with the engine idling, waiting for Paul to pull in behind him. After a minute, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see Paul on his phone instead of behind the wheel, so he pulled back into his spot, turned off the engine, and exited. At the sight of flattened tires, he groaned.

  Still speaking, Paul motioned to him to come around to his side and pointed to the door. When Cliff looked down and saw the words “DIE COP” etched into the door, his stomach twisted into a knot, but he waited until Paul finished his conversation.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah.” Paul shoved his fingers through his hair. “I guess someone’s not too happy with me trying to find out who murdered Jerry.”

  “Does this put you in danger? It must be pretty unsettling to think someone who’s already killed another person wants you dead.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Those words hit Cliff hard, and although he understood Paul’s job was a dangerous one, he hadn’t really considered how it invaded every aspect of his life, even when he was off duty.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  Paul’s somber gaze met his. “Listen, we can forget about this tonight if you want. I’m sure you’re freaked out, and I have to make a report, and then they’re going to take my car and go over it to see if there’s any evidence they can find—”

  “No,” Cliff said with enough vehemence that Paul stopped and quirked a brow. “What kind of friend would I be if I walked away when something terrible like this happens? And I don’t think you should be alone, so I’m staying. If you want me to, I mean,” he said, a bit lamely.

  Dark-blue piercing eyes met his, sending a full-body shiver through Cliff. “I-I appreciate it.”

  “Then I’m staying.”

  A brief smile softened Paul’s hard mouth. “Thanks. Do me a favor? Call Duffy and ask him to preserve the videos for today. Unfortunately, I have no idea what time this was done, ’cause I parked my car here this morning and haven’t been back since.”

  “I’ll text him to let his team know. He’s gone for the day. It’s close to six.” Cliff pulled out his phone and sent the message. Within a second, Duffy replied: On it.

  “Yeah.” Paul grimaced. “That’ll have to do, then.”

  It only took fifteen minutes for a patrol car to pull up, followed by a flatbed. They removed the car, and Paul prowled around the empty space, bending down, looking at every bit of dirt and whatever else lay on the floor of the garage. Cliff stayed in the background, letting Paul do his job, admiring his fierce concentration. When Paul crouched, examining something on the ground, Cliff also couldn’t help admiring his firm ass and those strong thighs.

  “Look at this,” Paul called to him, and Cliff hurried over, keeping behind him when Paul put a hand out. “Don’t step over here. But you see this?” He pointed to the ground.

  Cliff peered over his shoulder. “Um…what am I looking at?”

  “It’s sand. Not much, but still. We found sandy footprints at the scene of Jerry’s murder as well. I don’t think you were made aware of that.”

  “I see. So it’s likely that the person who did this is the murderer.”

  Paul stood and brushed off his hands. “It’s certainly interesting. Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Can you get me a small Ziploc bag, and if you have a brush, maybe like a paintbrush?” One side of his mouth tipped upward in a slight smile. “That might be a little too much to hope for, though.”

  Responding with a full-blown smile, Cliff held up a hand. “No, no. Hold it. I think I’ve got what you need. Be right back.” He hurried away before Paul could respond, whipping his way through the doors, past people meandering in the lobby. The startled gazes of both Preston and Daisy at the front desk greeted his return.

  “What happened? We saw a police car.”

  “Never mind that. Call the kitchen for me and tell them I need a few Ziploc bags ASAP.” At the sight of Preston opening his mouth, Cliff wagged a finger. “Nope. Not going to answer, so don’t ask.” He left them before either could take a breath, and unlocked his office, making a beeline for his top drawer. He scrabbled through the mess until he pulled out a packet.

  “Ha. Got it.” The first week after he got his new desktop, he’d spilled some cereal he was pouring into a bowl all over the keyboard, and after a lecture about eating over his computer, their tech person gave him a brush kit to clean up the crumbs between the keys. Hopefully this would help Paul.

  Kit in hand, Cliff raced out of the office to the front desk, where Preston was accepting a paper bag fr
om one of the kitchen staff.

  “Thanks,” he said and plucked the bag out of Preston’s hands, then retraced his steps to the garage, where Paul, in the waning light, held his phone with the flashlight shining down on the ground.

  “I got something. I hope it helps.” Breathing hard, he held out the brush kit to Paul.

  “Yeah?” Paul took it, and when he opened the flap, his eyes brightened. “Bingo. Perfect, Cliff.” He took one of the brushes, dropped to his knees, and with infinite care swept the sand into a tiny hill. “Can you help me? Hold the bag open while I sweep the sand into it?”

  “Anything you need.” He kneeled next to Paul and held the bag open, acutely aware of the dark bristles shading Paul’s jaw, his quiet breathing, the warm scent of his skin…his everything. Cliff inhaled Paul’s presence. His hands trembled slightly, and Paul laid a finger across the tops of his.

  “Steady.”

  Their eyes met, and Cliff nodded. “Sorry.”

  That quick half smile came and went, and then Paul resumed brushing the sand into the bag, and Cliff kept his hands still.

  Paul slipped the brush back into the kit. “Good job. Thanks for your help.”

  “Is that it?” A little disappointed, Cliff got to his feet and watched as Paul sealed the bag shut and placed it in his jacket pocket.

  Paul chuckled. “For now, yeah. Tomorrow I’ll bring it to the precinct, where they’ll send it out to see if it matches the sand they picked up from the murder scene.”

  Cliff shuddered. “It’s all so…creepy, for want of a better word. Thinking someone’s out there watching you.” He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone right there.

  “I can call a cab to take me home.” Paul shoved his hands into his pockets. “I understand if you’re too freaked out and would rather call it a night.”

  “Is that what you want?” Cliff held his breath.

  Paul’s exhalation reverberated in the empty garage, and his head dipped down. “No. I don’t.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Paul followed him and got into the passenger seat of Cliff’s car, and they exited the garage. From the corner of his eye, he saw Paul texting; he grunted and slipped his phone into his pocket.