The Trouble With Murder (17 page)

Every time I’m called to pick my mother
up from jail, the police station, or court, I’m reminded of a night thirteen
years ago. I’d gone to pick my brother up from his afterschool class and
learned my mother had collected him an hour earlier. By this time, I’d made it
a point never to leave Zach unattended with my father. He couldn’t even look at
Zach without frightening me anymore. I’d bummed a ride home and found the house
dark, my mother gone. I’d known something was wrong.

After running through the house, I
saw a bar of light under my brother’s closed bedroom door. It had been the only
light on in the house. Never before or since have I experienced panic like I’d
felt at that moment. Without much clear thought, I’d barreled through the door.
My fear had been confirmed.

My father had been sitting beside
my brother on the bed, dressed in only his underwear. Zach’s shirt was gone.
Operating on instinct fueled by pure terror, I’d grabbed up a wooden baseball
bat lying on the floor and charged my father swinging. He’d raised his arms to
defend himself, but the bat glanced off his head. The blow had knocked him back
and momentarily stunned him.

Horrified at what I’d done, I’d
dropped the bat. I’d grabbed Zach and dragged him out of the room. We’d
sprinted down the hall to the office where the crawl space was. For years, the
crawl space had been Zach’s safe place, the place I’d sent him to keep him out
of reach of my father, to make sure he never had to witness what my father was
capable of. Zach had been hysterical, confused, and beyond scared. He’d been
feeling everything I had felt. I’d wanted to stop and cry, too. But neither of
us could have afforded that.

While Zach had locked himself in
the crawl space, I’d run to the desk and groped around for the phone in the
dark. I’d been able to hear my father shouting from beyond the office door.
He’d been increasingly irritated with me by this time because I’d refused to
leave Zach alone with him. He hadn’t liked me much anyway, but this had just
made it worse. Hitting him had been the final straw. He’d sworn to kill me. I
can still remember what it felt like to hear him scream those words and have
absolutely no doubt in my young mind he truly meant them.

When he’d started breaking through
the office door with the bat, I’d forgotten about the phone and run to the gun
cabinet. Even though I wasn’t a boy, like he’d wanted, when he was in one of
his good moods, he had taken me to do boy things. He’d thought guns were a boy
thing. From an early age, I’d learned to handle, shoot, and care for them.

My hands had been trembling so
badly I’d been unable to get the tiny key in the lock on the cabinet. I’d
grabbed the paperweight from the corner of the desk and chucked it at the door.
The glass had shattered. He had nearly made it through the office door by the time
I put my hands on a gun. His intentions had been clear, and I had understood
perfectly that it was either going to be me or him. The thought of leaving him
alone with my brother forever made me decide it had to be me.

I’d just reached into the drawer where
the magazines and ammunition were kept when the last of the office door had
splintered away. He’d run in and taken a swing at me. I’d dropped to the floor
as I forced my shaking hands to put the loaded mag in the gun. He’d swung again
when I fired the first shot. It had struck him center mass but hadn’t stopped
him. Anger and hatred had seemed to drive him forward. I’d rolled out of the
path of the bat and fired three more shots, my small forearms burning from the
exertion of hefting the gun, pulling the trigger, and fighting the recoil. Four
black dots had spotted his chest, and blood poured out of them. For a moment
he’d stood completely still, frozen. Then he’d collapsed to the floor.

The police had arrived then; a
neighbor had called 911 to report the racket. I collected my brother and got
him out of the house. The police had taken us to the hospital for evaluation, followed
by the police station for questioning. It had taken the police nearly six hours
to locate my mother and another three for her to show up. When she had arrived,
she’d stormed into the room where I’d been sitting with the detective.

“How could you, you little brat?”
she’d shouted. “How could you do this? He was my husband! He was your father!
You brat!”

She’d been shrieking, her voice
shrill and abrasive. I hadn’t responded. I’d been numb then, from what I’d just
experienced. But I was also long accustomed to tuning out her ranting, as even
then it was nothing new. The detective had gotten up to intervene, but she’d
ducked around him, racing up to me and slapping me. After the detective had
thrown her out, she’d collected my brother and left. Just like she’d left me at
school on a regular basis, she’d left me at the police station on the worst day
of my life.

Inevitably, my mind flashes back to
that night when I’m called to pick her up. I always want to leave her, the way
she’d left me. It’s always a struggle not to. Leaving her wouldn’t accomplish
anything. My mother doesn’t learn that way. And I don’t think it would make me
feel any better, either. Still, it was this that filled my head while I waited
for her case to be called. By the time I heard her name, I’d pretty much put it
all behind me again, where it would wait to be dragged out again next time.

The case was heard quickly; my
mother’s lawyer was present.

Bridget Grey was dressed in a black miniskirt that barely
covered her derriere and a black halter-top covered in rhinestones and sequins.
I easily imagined how the top would have glinted and sparkled under the lights
of whatever club she’d been in last night. In the sunlight, I noticed her skin
had been brushed with glitter, which drew attention to her perfect shoulders
and ample breasts. Her heavy makeup was smeared, and it thickly ringed her
bloodshot eyes. Her normally prefect blonde hair was matted and gross, sticking
up in various places. She only had one shoe, carried in her purse, which she’d
managed to hang on to somehow.

Even in her post-party state, she
still easily drew the attention of almost every male within her immediate
vicinity. And they weren’t seeing a woman too old to be dressed as she was, or
a woman who had partied too hard. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as the
idiots practically drooled over her.

While her lawyer walked her out, the
pair discussing something or other, I hiked back to the Saab. When I pulled up
in front of the courthouse, my mother and Kenneth Weitz, her very expensive
attorney, were standing in the morning sun, waiting. I switched on the flashers
and barely had time to get out of the car before my mother slid in behind the
wheel.

“What took you so long?” she
snapped before slamming the door.

The flashers winked off, the engine
roared, and the tires spun, leaving twin streaks of black rubber on the
asphalt. An angry horn bleated as my mother jerked the Saab into traffic,
cutting off another car.

“You’re welcome!” I called to her
bumper.

I returned to the sidewalk, where I
now spotted Ellmann. As he walked casually over to me, I wondered how long he’d
been there. What was he doing at the courthouse at all?

“At least you brought her car this
time,” the lawyer said.

“Next time, I’ll tell the cop who
calls me to pick her up to go fly a kite, and then you can bring her home, Ken.
How’s that sound?”

Weitz smiled a sick, lawyery smile,
and I felt my gut roll.

“All I have to do is threaten to
call your precious baby brother, and you’ll come running, Zoe darling. Who are
we kidding?”

Turning on an expensive, no-doubt
handmade leather shoe, the attorney waltzed away, probably planning what to buy
with the haul he’d just taken for defending my mother in court this morning.
Really, the two of them were perfect for one another. Both sleazy, selfish
people who lived almost entirely in worlds of their own making.

Ellmann stopped beside me, his
hands in his pockets. He was staring at the little lawyer strutting away. I
could see something a bit stronger than dislike on his face.

“Bridget was in quite a hurry to
get out of here,” he said. “The excitement of freedom, or embarrassment?”

I scoffed. “Neither. She wants to
get to work. Despite everything, she takes her work pretty seriously, and she’s
actually good at it.”

“At the accounting firm.”

“BGW and Associates. She’s the
G
.
Because of her condition, they didn’t want to put her name on the building. At
first they would only agree to her as a silent partner. But she negotiated the
G
.
It also helps that she’s better at their jobs than they are; they need her.
Which is why they put up with all her shit. Now, nice to see you, but I need to
go.”

I turned and started walking.
Ellmann fell in stride beside me.

“What do they do at BGW and
Associates? Do you know?”

“You looked them up. I’m sure you
saw the ‘Accounting and Investment Services’ part after their name.”

“Yeah. But I hoped you knew more.”

“Sorry. You know as much as I do.
What are you doing here, anyway? Did you come here to interrogate me?” It
sounded a bit harsher than I’d intended. Ellmann wasn’t the enemy. Actually,
from everything I’d gathered so far, he seemed like a pretty decent guy. And I
was starting to like him.

“A couple last-minute things to
file,” he said. “Spotted your mom in the hallway with her snake-oil salesman.
You were right about her attorney. Weitz isn’t a very nice guy.”

“No shit.” I hiked my bag up on my
shoulder. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but don’t you have work to do? Like
maybe finding whoever put Stacy in the hospital? Or finding Tyler Jay?”

I reached the corner and hit the
button for the crosswalk. Ellmann easily kept pace, his legs several inches
longer than mine.

“I get it,” he said. “You’re having
a shitty day. I won’t take any of this personally. In fact, let me give you a
ride.”

“What makes you think I need a
ride?”

It irritated me that Ellmann always
seemed to know what I wasn’t saying. Normally, I’m not this easy for people to
figure out. Actually, I’m
never
this easy for people to figure out.
Amy’s pretty good at it, but she’s been doing it her whole life. After five
years of friendship, Sadie’d told me she felt like she still didn’t know me. So
what was the deal with Ellmann? I didn’t know. And maybe I didn’t want to know.

“You obviously drove your mom’s car
here, which was at the impound lot. So, where else would your car be? Come on,
the lot’s like four or five miles from here; let me give you a ride. I’m over
here.” He pointed and rounded the corner, walking toward the other side of the
courthouse.

The light changed and the crosswalk
signal winked on. Glancing at the light, I sighed and fell in behind Ellmann.
The truth was, I was exhausted. I just didn’t want to walk that far.

Ellmann had snagged a primo place,
one reserved for those who bleed blue. We climbed in, then he cruised away from
the courthouse and over to the impound lot. He was about to ask me where I’d
parked, until the sun gleamed off the unmistakable copper paint of the enormous
barge.

“Never mind,” he said, making a
left and stopping behind the Lincoln. “When do you get your truck back?”

I shrugged. I had no idea. The
mechanic was on my list of people to call today. But who knew; it might be a
week.

Suddenly an image of the truck
flashed into my mind. It was stalled on the railroad tracks, a steam engine
barreling toward it. I could hear the ear-piercing shriek of the train’s horn.
Then the train smashed into the truck, shattering it to a million tiny pieces
that exploded and rained down like confetti at a party.

“Hey, Earth to Zoe.”

Ellmann’s voice penetrated the
thought, and I shook my head. I had no idea how long he’d been talking to me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just a little
tired.”

“That little grin you had there,”
he said. “You looked like a kid at Disney Land. What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I grabbed my bag and
opened the door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said as I got out. “Again.”

“Stay out of trouble, huh? The twelve-hour
rule is still in effect.”

I shrugged. “No problem.”

I got into the Lincoln and my phone
rang. Ellmann made a U-turn and disappeared around the corner as I answered it.

“Zoe Grey? My name is Karen Lerman.
I’m calling from King Soopers about the application you submitted. I’d like you
to come in for an interview.”

Excellent. My second such call
today. A woman from Hobby Lobby had also called me that morning, while I’d been
waiting for my mother at the courthouse. We’d scheduled an interview for tomorrow.
Maybe all this meant my day was looking up.

“I have quite a bit of flexibility
in my schedule this week,” I said. “What day works best?”

“Actually, I was hoping you had
time today. Maybe this morning? How’s eleven?”

Incidentally, eleven worked for me.
I had a pretty open schedule.

I agreed to the time and we
disconnected.

I noticed a text from Pezzani. He’d
obviously gotten my note.

“Hope the family is okay. Anything
I can do? I’m off at eleven today. Wanna have lunch?”

I sent him a quick reply accepting
his lunch offer. Then I dialed my mechanic. I knew the shop was open, but no
one answered the phone. I left a terse message then started the Lincoln and
coasted home. I got to the first stoplight before I realized I didn’t have a
home to go to.

I called Donald. I knew he didn’t
mind that I was driving the Lincoln, but I did. It was past time to return it.
But I fully realized the dangers of going to my mother’s house right now. She’s
never in a great mood, as far as I’m concerned. Just getting out of jail was
likely to put her in a very bad mood. By a stroke of luck, Donald reported she
was not at the house, and she had not been home. I started that way, giving him
clear instructions to call me immediately if she turned up.

By the time I arrived at the house,
I’d received no such call. Donald met me on the porch. I tossed him the keys as
I hustled into the garage, slinging the duffle bag across my chest then pushing
the Cushman out into the driveway. I called my thanks to Donald, jumped onto
the Cushman, and buzzed away.

I had some time to kill before my
interview, so I decided to hit the gym. I put in another painful half hour on
the elliptical and immediately felt a terrible burning sensation in almost
every part of my lower body. I was holding back tears when the counter finally
hit thirty minutes. I winced with every step to the locker room then stood in
the shower for a long time.

Dressed in my interview best,
clothes that had suffered slightly from being hastily packed into the duffle
bag, I buzzed over to King Soopers. I wasn’t too worried about the fact that I’d
pinned my hair up wet, or that my clothes weren’t crisply ironed. I understand
the principle of always putting the best foot forward, but this was King
Soopers, not the Capital Building, or even a bank. I felt sure a few small
wrinkles would be overlooked, if they were noticed at all. I followed the
instructions Karen had given me. I arrived early, but she seemed in a hurry to
interview me anyway.

She led me up the stairs at the
back of the building. The second floor was old and undecorated. There was a
large open area filled with two tables, a microwave, fridge, and coffee pot
that served as the break room. There was also a bathroom and a wall of small
lockers. The rest of the space was given over to offices. Some of the offices
were labeled with names on the doors while others weren’t. The office Karen led
me into was labeled
bob durran
.

The interview was relatively short.
She asked a series of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability.
Then I asked a few of my own. I learned management in this particular store was
undergoing reorganization. There had been terminations, layoffs, promotions,
demotions, and a host of other changes. Bob Durran no longer worked for King
Soopers. Karen usually worked out of an office in Denver but had come up to
help get things back on track. This, at least, explained the hurry to get
through interviews.

Interview concluded, I carried the
duffle bag back out of the store and climbed onto the Cushman. It was too early
to meet Pezzani, so I decided to drop in on Stacy again. She was occupying a
decent portion of my thoughts, anyway, so I thought it was reasonable to visit.

I bypassed the line waiting for the
volunteer—today a man with bottle cap glasses—and got on the elevator. I reached
for the button marked
4
and noticed all the buttons were lit. I looked
at the only other people on the elevator: a woman and her young son. The kid
grinned at me.

Before the elevator delivered me to
the fourth floor, it had stopped at three, returned to one, gone to the
basement, and stopped again at one. I shot a dark look at the young boy as his
mother finally led him out of the elevator. I was pretty certain I could have
gotten there faster if I’d taken the stairs. Which also would have been better
for me. Go figure.

As I rounded the corner onto ICU, I
nearly ran into Tina Shuemaker. She was dressed in jeans, heeled boots, and a
ruffled top. Her hair was down—a layered, deliberate mess—hanging past her
shoulders. Her makeup was flawless and her jewelry trendy. She carried a large
designer bag on her shoulder.

“Oh, hello,” I said, stepping out
of the way just before we collided.

She looked up, but it took a moment
for her to place my face. When she did, her smile was cold and didn’t reach her
eyes.

“What are
you
doing here?”
She made it sound more like an accusation than a question.

“Visiting Stacy, of course. And
yourself?”

“The same. What else would I be
doing?”

I didn’t know. “Is she doing any
better?”

Tina shrugged and tried for a sad
look, but like the smile, it seemed insincere. “The doctors aren’t hopeful. I
have to get to class; I’m late.”

Then she was gone.

As I made my way down the hall, a
series of alarms sounded somewhere. An instant later, people dressed in scrubs
and white jackets were jumping up and hurrying out of the nurses’ station and
down the hall. Vicki Karnes, Stacy’s mother, shot out of Stacy’s room, panic-stricken.
She was forced backward as the wave of people flowed past her.

“Help!” she cried desperately.
“Please, help her!”

By the time I made it to the room,
all sorts of equipment and people had been convened around the bed. The alarms
were still sounding, and the staff was talking over them, calling out
information and orders. Thomas stood huddled with his wife in the back of the
room, just inside the door. Both of them were crying as they watched, and
waited.

Stunned and horrified by the
implication of the sounds and hurried activity, I was unable to move, unable to
look away. The same way a person is compelled to watch a train wreck. I chalked
it up to human nature.

The horrible feeling in my chest
and the hot tears burning silently down my cheeks were something else.