Deadly Fall (40 page)

He looked at his watch. “Time's running out for that phone call. Who's the target: Kenneth or Anne?”

Paula closed her eyes to get a better picture of the two. Wiry, muscled Anne lifted weights in her clingy workout gear. Kenneth's long, lean body lunged around a squash court; he slammed a ball. Neither image rushed to the forefront. “You might as well flip a coin.”

“Good idea,” Sam said.

“I was kidding.”

He headed for the hall. What was he up to now?

It was fine for him to risk getting himself killed. He was doing this for his future relationship with his son. Her goal was to secure the safety of Hayden, Isabelle, and herself. If the plan backfired, it could place all of them in further danger.

The candles on the sideboard seemed to taunt: do it for Callie. That relationship was dead. In the last days, the last moments of her life, Callie had turned to Paula for help. Callie might have opened up to her sooner, before she ran out of time, if Paula were a different sort of person, a friend Callie might expect to say, “Hey, you were a kid. We all make mistakes.” Who was Paula to judge anyone's behavior when here she was in Sam's living room hatching this ridiculous plan?

He returned with a penny. “I managed to find a shiny one in the den.” He held the coin between his finger and thumb.

“This is too critical to decide with a coin toss,” she said.

“You call it: heads or tails.” Sam flung the coin to the twelve-foot high ceiling. He hovered underneath, palms upward as the coin came spinning down.

“Heads,” she said. “Kenneth was the brain who covered up the old crime. Heads has to be Kenneth.”

Sam caught the penny. His head bumped Paula's as they peered at his hand clutching his forearm. She wanted the hand to stay there forever, didn't want to know. Sam's baby finger twitched. He slowly raised his hand. They stared at the image on the coin.

“It's wrong,” Paula said. “The killer's the other one.”

Paula drove into the downtown core. She scratched her throat, which itched from Callie's turtleneck. Callie's running shoes crunched her toes, but no way would she confront a killer in the pumps she had worn to Sam's. In his basement, they had gone through every detail, over and over and over. What if there was a flaw in their premise? A C-train rushed by, only a handful of early-bird workers in its cars. The stars had abandoned the ink sky, although the church spire stretched toward the glowing half moon.
A church.
Dimitri. Her theory that a religious nut was bumping the boy's killer off, one by one. Dimitri was religious. How had they missed that? Sam's headlights shimmered in her rear view mirror. He had been so buoyed by the prospect of his son's innocence.

She crossed the C-train tracks and rifled through her purse for her cell. Was this reasonable concern or last minute panic? At the red light, she called up her saved numbers.

Detective Vincelli answered groggily. She had woken him up. Tough shit. A cop's job was to protect her.

“I'm about to do something stupid,” she said.

“What?” Vincelli sounded more alert.

“You can stop me by answering certain questions.”

“What stupid thing are you doing?”

A pedestrian stepped onto the street. Her car screeched to a stop. A pickup squealed behind her. She hoped Sam didn't crash into it. The pickup must have cut in.

“Dimitri and Callie were lovers for two years,” she said. “Lovers confide, sometimes everything. How do we know she didn't tell him about the killing of the boy?”

“Would you please let this go? We're handling it.”

“Dimitri's religious. Could Callie's confession and her dumping him have driven him over the edge, and he started popping the guilty off, first Callie, then Felix . . .”

“Do we need this speculation in the middle of the night?”

“It's early morning,” she said.

“Don't approach Dimitri or any of them.”

“Any of whom?”

“We'll get on the case tomorrow; today.” A toilet flushed at the end of his line. “Where are you? At home? Stay inside. I'll be there in twenty minutes.” Running water suggested he was washing his hands.

She stopped for a red light. The pickup was still behind her.

“Sam and I narrowed the suspects to Kenneth and Anne. Should we add Dimitri? I know my theory's wild.”

Rustlings on the line might be Vincelli getting dressed. If he was rushing to her home to stop her, he must believe she was on the right track. It took dedication to leave his comfortable bed. This was his first major role in a murder case. He must be ambitious.

“We came up with a plan to draw the murderer out,” she said. “It's not too dangerous. If you had to choose a murderer between Dimitri, Anne, and Kenneth, whom would you pick?”

“I'm not answering that.”

“I've made my choice and am going ahead unless you give me reason not to.”

She slowed for another red light. They were getting them all today, but were ahead of schedule and had plenty of time. If Vincelli didn't fall for her bluff, she was turning around before the bridge. One in two odds, with an educated guess, was good enough. One in three wasn't. If Dimitri did it, their plan was pointless and potentially cruel. The pickup was still sandwiched between her and Sam, who wouldn't welcome her cop-out. She had assured him she would be able to go through with it.

“If I was forced to choose,” Vincelli said. “I would probably go with the holdback.”

“The what?”

“We always withhold a piece of evidence to screen out crank calls.”

“Do you get many?”

“You'd be surprised.”

She was stunned he had told her this much. “What was the holdback in this case?”

Vincelli didn't answer. So he didn't want the reward enough to compromise her safety.

“There was a witness.” Vincelli's voice was barely audible. “A man saw someone leave the Elbow River trail around the time of Callie's murder. He described the suspect as a person with bright yellow hair.”

Her heart-beat picked up. Bright yellow hair. “The boy . . .”

“. . . in Felix's story,” Vincelli said.

“You read it?”

“We believe the bad guy wore a yellow wig. Fibers were found at the site.”

“A wig. Kenneth is half bald. He'd want to hide his head to not be identified.”

“While I was reading the story tonight, something nagged me about the witness's statement.” Vincelli's voice was stronger. “I went back to my original notes. He initially said he saw a boy leave the trail, but wasn't sure enough, so we changed it to person.”

“A boy.” Her heart sank to her stomach. “Dimitri.” She didn't want it to be him. Although Dimitri was over thirty and hardly a boy.

“It was dark,” Vincelli said. “The witness was standing a block behind the suspect and didn't get a look at the face. Dimitri's quite husky. From that vantage point, you would likely take him as man.”

“Would you take Kenneth as a boy? He's thin, but so tall.”

“If you're on your way to talk to him, forget it. Kenneth won't cave.”

“Dimitri—”

“He doesn't know anything and might screw things up because she's his—”

“I've got to go.”

“Paula, wait—”

She hung up. Vincelli had slipped. He agreed with her choice. She drove onto the bridge span, hardly believing she and Sam were right. After her hunch, they had reasoned it out. Kenneth was shrewd. During his tête-à-tête with Anne, Kenneth was the one who suggested lethal injection for future murders. He knew Anne was the killer and was cuing her into a method he felt would work better than guns, the one he would have used from the start. Anne had naturally thought of guns first, given her shooting experience with her father. If Anne was innocent in Callie's and Felix's deaths, wouldn't she have told the police about the old crime when suspicion fell on Dimitri, her son? There was also the timing of Callie's death. During their workout, Paula had mentioned Callie's phone message inviting her to lunch. She may have said things like, “I was surprised to hear from Callie after she's avoided me all summer” and “I can't phone her tonight, since I'm seeing Hayden, but will do it tomorrow night.” Anne would have guessed the reason for Callie's call. She had already stolen Sam's father's gun from the shed and planned the murder, but realized she had to act before Paula returned Callie's message.

On the north side of the Bow River, Paula stopped at a light, the pickup still behind her. Or was this a different truck? Rounding the corner, she noted Sam's Acura one vehicle back. He would wait at the next block. Her cell phone rang.

“Watches synchronized?” Sam's tone was ominous. “Ready?”

“More than ever.” Now that she had the confidence they were right.

“Good luck.”

Small businesses, not yet open for the day, lined the fitness center's street, which seemed amazingly long as she drove past the lanes and sidewalk empty of people. No other cars; no one likely to witness a deed done in the dark. Ahead, the fitness center's church shape was a silhouette against an indigo sky. No lights shone from its windows. Even the Fit for Life sign was dark. As Paula had predicted, Anne had canceled the early morning yoga class, probably with a believable excuse, such as the plumbing was off again. The cops would need more proof than the class cancellation; it could be a coincidence.

Two buildings had a sight-line to the fitness center parking lot: a craft boutique and a coffee shop, both closed. Paula pulled into the lot and stopped in the middle, far from Anne's Honda parked by the back door. Anne trotted down the stairs. Paula gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking. Her skin burned under three layers of clothes. Anne would question her wearing leather gloves. She grabbed Callie's sports bag, startled by its heaviness. At the last minute, Sam had thrown in a crystal candlestick in case she needed it.

Anne walked briskly toward her. “Why are you parking way out here?”

“Was the yoga class canceled?”

“There was a power surge. I couldn't get the auxiliary to work. I was going to call you, but figured you were on your way. You don't look dressed for working out.”

“Neither do you.” Anne wore a jacket and jeans. No hug of greeting this time.

“My suit's underneath,” she said. “It's damn cold this morning.”

Paula hugged her jacket to her sweater, banging the sports bag to her abdomen. Anne's face was a mask in the dark. She also wore gloves, clear ones you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking. Moonlight glanced off the latex, making Anne's hands look unnaturally white. This was impossible, her friend a killer. Anne rubbed her T-shirt exposed by the open jacket. Paula jerked backward. Her sole task was to keep her distance until Sam showed up and they caught Anne with the hypodermic needle. Their word against hers, but they were two against one and had the benefit of the truth and Felix's story, which Vincelli seemed to finally take seriously.

“Did you bring that thing you found in Felix's house?” Anne asked.

“In here.” Paula held up the sports bag. “It's too dark for you to read it outside. Mainly I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“About Sam?”

Paula's rear grazed the car. Amazing she could feel the metal under the padding. “Like I told you over the phone, Felix's story was about him and some guy friends in university shooting a street kid.”

“You said it was fiction.”

“But it rang true and the other guys sounded like Kenneth and, in some ways, Sam. He was described as an architecture student. All I want to know is: was Sam involved in that mess?” Her voice trembled. Good effect. “I don't want to squeal to the cops. It was an accident and happened years ago. But I don't know if I could be involved with Sam, knowing he'd done . . . something like this.”

“You wouldn't respect him?”

“I don't know. There'd be so much to think about.”

“Are you really that hooked on Sam?”

“It's dumb, I know. I can't help it. He's—” The street was deserted. Sam should be appearing about now.

“I don't know anything about some boy being killed,” Anne said. “You know the guys don't tell me everything.” How could her voice sound so sweet?

“You and Sam were once close. You probably know him better than anyone. He doesn't let himself get close to people.”

“That's Sam.” Anne's hands hung by her sides. Was the needle in her jacket pocket? Paula leaned back to protect her face, her only exposed skin. The rest of her was drenched under layers of Callie's clothes. Her heart pounded. Where the fuck was Sam?

“The Sam character in Felix's story had a father who disliked him,” she said. “Nothing Sam did was ever good enough. He told me that about his dad.”

“It's true.” Anne edged forward. “I never liked the old man. He didn't care for me, either.”

“He loved Callie.”

“Everyone did.” There was pain in Anne's voice. “What was so special about her?”

Paula stepped sideways. Her leg hit the rear fender. “Was Sam fat as child?”

Anne's head jerked back and forth. “What do you mean?”

“In the story, Felix said Sam's schoolmates teased him, calling him Porky Pig.”

Anne flinched as though she were stabbed. It was horrible to do this. No, it wasn't. This woman had coolly murdered two friends.

“Sam's mother put him on diets,” Paula said. “Is that why he exercises so much?”

Anne gazed over Paula's shoulder, at nothing. “He feels if he stops for a minute the fat will roll back on.” Under her jacket, Anne was all muscle and bone. Too much muscle.

Paula's calf touched the rear bumper. She had to get around the car and have it between her and Anne when Anne pulled the needle from her pocket.