Some Degree of Murder (27 page)

Her eyes stared up at me as I held her in my hands. The eyes were bright and blue, a sense of excitement dancing behind them. Her lips were forever frozen in a large beaming smile, exposing perfect white teeth. Several freckles dotted her checks and a small dimple showed on the right side of her face.

“I did it, Fawn,” I said softly to the picture.

I was sitting alone in my hotel room, in the same chair Gina’s body had warmed only an hour before.

The tears stung my eyes and rolled down my face.

“I’m a fuckin’ pussy,” I mumbled to myself. I tucked her picture into my jacket pocket and wiped my eyes with the palms of my hands.

With a quick snatch, I grabbed my bag off of the bed and left the hotel room.

Gina met me down in the hotel lobby. She stood when she saw me get off of the elevator. She wore her black sweatshirt with Levi’s and white running shoes.

“You al
l right?” she asked.

”Yeah.”

She slipped her hand into mine and escorted me out to her beat-up Toyota which sat behind a black limousine with the Davenport logo on it.

I tossed my bag into the trunk before climbing in to the passenger’s seat. Gina started the car after a few mis-fires and we pulled away from the curb.

“Listen,” she said, “I hope you know you can trust me.” Her eyes flicked over to me and then back to the road. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking that you took a big chance by asking me for help.”

I watched her as she spoke.

“You might have done that without much thinking down the road. So now you’re wondering how you make sure I won’t say anything.”

Gina changed lanes to get around a slower Mercedes. “I just want to let you know that you don’t have to worry about me. You did this for your daughter. I helped you for Serena. The goal was the same. I’m in this as much as you.”

I faced forward and looked out the window as she pulled into the parking lot of the combination Greyhound/Amtrak station. She swung the car around into a parking spot near the front of the building. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the car off.

We sat quietly for a few minutes until she spoke. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a drop box in case you need to get a hold of me. I check it once or twice a month, so don’t expect an immediate answer.”

She pulled the piece of paper from my fingers and read it. “Who’s Dave Semenko?”

“It’s just a name on the P.O. box. An old hockey player.”

“Is Virgil your real name?”

“Virgil is as real as I’ve got anymore.”

Gina reached over and slipped her hand behind my neck. She pulled me into her and kissed me. Her lips parted for me one final time. When we broke, her eyes were wet and she patted me on the leg. “You need to catch a train.”

I rubbed my thumb gently over her lips. “Thanks,” I said softly and climbed out of the car.

The days were getting longer. That’s what the woman on the radio said to start out her one-minute plant advice radio spot. The days are getting longer and all of our green leafy friends will be enjoying more sunlight.

I switched off the radio and shifted in my seat. The parking lot at the Oak Avenue Open Bible Church was empty except for a 1970 or 1971 Chevy Nova parked right next to the office entrance. Being it was a four-door, I figured it belonged to the Church Pastor.

Traffic was sparse on Indiana Street just to the north and no one paid any attention to me parked in the far corner of the parking lot under the yawning limbs of an oak tree. I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, then back out through the windshield. The silence inside my car was heavy and I lowered the window to let in some of the outside world. The rumbling hum of the car’s engine mixed with the occasional sounds of traffic and the voices of children down the block on Oak Avenue.

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. Echoes from the last twenty-four hours rang in my ears and images flashed unbidden behind my eyes.

Brittany Gardner’s slack mouth and bloody thighs.

Virgil Kelley’s hard eyes.

The crack of a Glock and the wet splat of Rowdy’s head being torn apart.

Lieutenant Crawford’s cigar smoke and sarcasm.

Ray Browning’s doubt.

Then, this morning, came the long list of questions from Lieutenant Hart in Internal Affairs, who had supplanted Browning as the primary investigator of what was now termed an “incident.” Browning was to re-investigate the Fawn Taylor case and the Serena Gonzalez case, as well as the shooting of Cody Heinz.
Lieutenant Hart would review all three for any violations of policy or any improprieties.

I tried to remember the flow of the questioning and wondered if I had made any mistakes. I’d lain awake almost the entire night considering how to play my hand. It wasn’t a consideration I’d ever really had to make before, at least not of this magnitude. I’d danced up to the line before and maybe even reached across the threshold for the right reasons. But I’d finally crossed it.

And now I was an accessory to murder.

Hart was all over me for not using backup, for not making the proper advisements to Crawford and Browning as my case developed and for messing up Browning’s case on Sammy G.

“You’re responsible for Cody Heinz’s death, Tower, and for his killer getting away,” he accused me, his voice outraged.

More than you realize, Lieutenant,
I thought.

I tapped my fingers absently on the steering wheel and watched traffic scroll by, trying to stifle my thoughts.

Did I make any mistakes in IA?

Would they be able to find Virgil Kelley? If they did, what would he say?

Were there any witnesses near the office building that saw him go in and then me go in? Will they remember the timing of the shots?

To hell with it.
I couldn’t control any of that. It all depended on chance and circumstance and how good of an investigator Hart was and how much Browning chose to investigate.

A small blue pickup truck slowed along Indiana and turned into the parking lot. I watched as the vehicle approached and pulled alongside my driver’s side window. Paul Hiero was alone in the cab and he looked about as ragged as I felt. He gave me a nervous nod.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his gun. I’d wrapped it in a black T-shirt. He watched me as I held it through my open window.

“What’s that?”

“Take it,” I told him.

Hiero reached out and took it from my hand. As soon as he felt the weight of the handgun, his eyes widened slightly. He swallowed hard and put the package on the seat next to him.

“Where, uh, where’d you get it?” He avoided my eyes when he asked.

I stared at the cuts and bruises still evident on his face. “I found it,” I told him. “And as far as anyone else knows, I never had it.”

Hiero nodded and swallowed hard again. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Are you still mixed up with that girl?” I asked him.

Hiero bit his lip briefly, then nodded his head. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

“That’s trouble. You know that, right?”

He glanced down at the T-shirt on the seat beside him. “Yeah, I know. I just can’t cut loose of her.”

I didn’t reply and instead stared off at the spires of the courthouse six blocks away.

Hiero continued, his voice tightening. “It’s just not that easy for me right now, Tower. My life is completely screwed. She’s about the only good thing I’ve got going. I know it’s messed up, but at least with her, I feel like—“

I raised my hand in front of my face and shook my head briefly. “Don’t,” I told him. “I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need to know your demons and you don’t need to know mine.”

Hiero was quiet for a moment. Then, “I owe you.”

I shook my head. “No. You don’t owe me.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “And I won’t forget. So thanks.”

Hiero put the Ford in gear and backed away, then shifted forward and cruised out of the lot.

I watched his truck turn left and cruise away on Indiana.

There was no reason to sit in the lot any longer, but I let the engine idle and stared absently out the window. The breeze outside my car window picked up slightly and I could hear the rush of air through the oak branches. I closed my eyes and focused on the flitter-flatter of the leaves
. I listened to their many soft voices.

I listened for the truth.

I listened for a long while.

And when I thought I’d finally heard it whispered on the air, I accepted it, dropped the car into gear and drove slowly home.

I'd like to say thanks to my writing partner, Frank, for pursuing this project for the past number of years.  Without your persistence, this story would still be hidden on a shelf somewhere.

-Colin

T
hanks to:

M
y wife, Kristi, first and foremost. She read a flawed and bloated version of this book and gave me my medicine straight.

Colin, for agreeing to move on this project and for taking the flawed, bloated draft and editing it judiciously. Thanks for keeping things on the freeway, bud.

Melanie Donaldson, for being a super reader.

Jennifer Bowerman, for taking it for a spin.

Matt Rose, for designing a killer cover.

-Frank

About the Author

Frank
Zafiro became a police officer in Spokane, Washington in 1993 after serving in the U.S. Army. He writes crime fiction, much of it set in River City. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan/player and a tortured guitarist. His wife, Kristi, is about the only person who will enjoy either activity with him.

You can keep up with Frank
at
http://frankzafiro.com
or his blog at
http://frankzafiro.blogspot.com
. 

Frank is one of the two hardboiled partners in crime with Jim Wilsky at
http://hardboiledpartners.blogspot.com
.

Frank also writes under his given name and you can check that out at his main website:
http://frankscalise.com
.

Colin Conway lives, works and writes in Spokane, Washington.  He met Frank while working as a police officer in the Spokane Police Department.  Today, he works in commercial real estate and continues the search for new stories to tell.

You can learn more about
Colin and his works of fiction at
www.thewayofthecon.com
.