The Trouble With Murder (16 page)

I sighed. As I thought about things
now, it didn’t seem as if I had a lot of choices.

“The man in the living room is
Derrick; all I got was a first name. He was with Tyler at Tyler’s mom’s house
when I stopped by. I talked to—“

“Wait, you
talked
to these
guys?”

I wasn’t sure why I was in trouble.
He already knew I went to the house. Why couldn’t I talk to them? “Maybe.”

“Zoe, driving by his house is one
thing, but you can’t go knocking on the door of a man like that.”

“Did you think I’d spotted Tyler
Jay sitting on the front porch sipping iced tea?”

“You could have been hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

He swung an arm in the direction of
the house. “What if those bullets had been meant for you? What if they came
here tonight looking to kill you?”

I shivered at the thought then
quickly pushed it aside. “That makes no sense,” I objected. It was a baseless
objection, and we both knew it. “Anyway,” I said, “that Derrick guy seemed to
be running interference for Tyler, like a bodyguard or something. You know
those bad guys; they all have entourages. All I know about him is that he has
no taste in fashion, poor choice in deodorant, thinks I’m too old to be in
college, and gets extremely uncomfortable if a woman starts crying.”

“Funny,” he said humorlessly, not
looking up from his notes. “Tina described you the same way.”

“What way?”

I thought I knew.

“Too old to be in college.”

And, I’d been right.

I shook my head. “You know, these
kids today, I’m telling you. What’s the world coming to . . .”

“It’s maybe just a little bit
harder for you to lie, I guess.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” I
snapped. “And I’m a damn good liar.”

His eyes flicked up at me.

“I mean
—
”

“Don’t,” he cautioned softly with a
shake of his head.

I didn’t.

_______________

My friend Mercedes, who goes by Sadie, is one of the most
social people on the planet. There is always a party or celebration or
get-together for her to go to. When there isn’t, she throws one herself.
Partying includes drinking, and Sadie is very careful about drinking and
driving. She always makes arrangements for transportation home or to stay the
night at someone else’s place. Tonight when I called her about crashing on her
sofa, she told me she was sleeping at a friend’s house; she didn’t need to tell
me she’d been drinking. She went on to say she would be at her friend’s house
for the next two days, because her apartment building was being fumigated and
several large-scale repairs and renovations were taking place. I wasn’t totally
heartbroken when I found out I couldn’t stay there. The one-bedroom apartment
is tiny.

I knew Amy was out of town for a
short getaway with Brandon after a weekend of fiancé-family stuff. But I didn’t
think she’d mind if I crashed on her sofa. When I called her, I obviously woke
her up. I briefly explained why I was in need of a place to crash and asked if
it was okay to use my key.

“Oh, Zoe,” she began, “of all the
nights to find a dead body in your house. Brandon’s parents are staying at the
house for a few days while we’re gone. They won’t mind if you stay there, but I
think they’d drive you crazy. How desperate are you?”

“Not that desperate.”

I’d met her fiancé’s parents once, and
I knew they would drive me crazy. They are two of the strangest people I’ve
ever spent time with. I often wonder how Brandon had turned out so sweet and
normal-like. The best I can figure is that he’s direct evidence miracles
do
happen. Either that or he belongs to the milkman.

The police activity around and
inside the house was finally winding down. It had been hours since I’d returned
home and found the body. The neighbors had all been woken up and asked probing
questions about suspicious activity or persons. Notes had been taken, witness
statements filled out, official reports started and some finished. The crime
scene guys had made a hundred trips to and from the van, carrying things in and
out, documenting every possible detail, collecting every micro-scrap of
potential evidence.

The last patrolman, Pratt, who had
also been at the scene of Stacy Karnes’s attack, emerged from the house after
speaking with Ellmann. He nodded to me then climbed into his patrol car and
motored away. Of course, not before taking another head-to-toe look. Shortly
afterward, the forensic guys started carrying things out to the van. I got the
distinct impression the party would be over soon and I’d be officially
homeless.

There was no way I was going back
to my mother’s house, if only because I didn’t want to listen to her go on and
on about what a troublemaker I was. That, and her manic activities would make
any decent sleep difficult. I wasn’t sleeping well these days anyway. I was
still considering Amy’s offer to bunk with the future in-laws, but decided to
try one last play. I dialed the phone and waited.

Three rings, four rings, five . . .
. Prepared to hang up, the ringing suddenly stopped. The voice on the other end
was groggy. Joe Pezzani had been asleep.

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“No, actually, I can’t believe I
fell asleep. I was going to call you . . . geez, hours ago, and see how it was
going. How is it going?”

I shrugged. “It’s going. Actually,
I think it’s about over. The coroner took the body a few hours ago, most the
cops are gone, and the crime scene guys are packing it in. I think most the
neighbors have moved away from their front windows at this point, too.”

“Did anyone see anything? Is there
anything new yet?”

“No. Or if there is, Ellmann isn’t
saying.”

“Where are you? Are you still at
the house?”

“Yes. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.
I wanted to talk about your offer of a place to stay.”

I could tell he was grinning. “I
thought you had that covered.”

“Yeah, well, turns out this is a
really bad time for people to get murdered in my living room. So how about it?
Can I sleep on your sofa?”

“Sure. Or you can sleep in the guest
bedroom. Your choice.”

He gave me directions and we hung
up.

Ellmann followed the last three men
out of the house. He flipped off the light, locked and pulled the front door
closed, then carefully applied a warning sticker to the door and doorframe, intended
to prevent entry into the house
—o
r
to alert officials that entry had been made. Everyone else piled into their
vehicles and drove away as Ellmann walked down the driveway toward me.

“Did you make arrangements?” he
asked.

I nodded. I thought maybe it was
better not to elaborate. “I did. I’m all set.”

“All right. Well, I’m tired; I’m
going to get some sleep. Please don’t call me with any other emergencies for at
least twelve hours. The truth is, you’re wearing me out.”

“Wearing you out? I called you once.”

“You’re connected to the messiest,
most complicated case I’ve had in a long time, and it just keeps getting
better.” He tipped his head at the dark house. “So, like I said, no emergencies
or problems of any kind for twelve hours. Can you manage to keep out of trouble
for twelve hours?”

“Doesn’t sound that hard.”

Pezzani lived in a condo off Elizabeth and Overland Trail.
The front door opened to a three-by-three foyer and a staircase. I followed him
up the stairs and to the left, into the open living room and kitchen area. A
small hallway on the right led to a loft and several open doors. The rooms
beyond—probably bedrooms and bathrooms—were dark. The furniture was distinctly
masculine and modern, with lots of black colors, linear designs, and cold metal
and glass. A black leather sofa was arranged opposite a large glass
entertainment center, which held a big screen plasma TV. The TV was on, the
sound muted, and only one lamp was turned on. Despite the cold and dark
materials, the place had a rather homey feel to it.

“Feel free to make yourself at
home,” Pezzani was saying. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up the
remote, and switched off the TV. “This is the couch.” He waved at the sofa. “Or
the guestroom is over here.”

I followed him down the hall to the
first door on the left. He went in, switching on the light as he passed. In the
far corner, he poked his head through another doorway and turned on a second
light.

“There is a Jack and Jill bathroom
between these two rooms,” he explained, “but I use the other room for a home
gym and storage, so it’s all yours. Clean towels in the closet there.”

I walked over and peeked in at the
biggest bathroom I’d ever seen. The bedroom was just as huge. The vaulted
ceilings and huge windows, even covered by dark drapes, all contributed to the
spaciousness of the place. There was a queen-sized bed with a bulky, black bed
frame and black linen, a stark contrast to the white walls and floors. A black dresser,
bedside table, and armchair with ottoman completed the décor.

“This is a nice place,” I said.

“I think I’m finally getting
settled in.”

“Did you just move in?”

“No, I’ve been here a couple years.”

I chuckled.

He started for the door. “Like I
said, make yourself at home. Help yourself to whatever you can find. I haven’t
been grocery shopping this week, so it might take some scrounging.”

“No worries, I’ll be fine. I
appreciate it.”

“I have to work at nine tomorrow,
but I should be back around noon. I’ll leave a key on the counter. You’re
welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“I should be able to figure
something out. The police shouldn’t have my house for too long.”

“Still, the offer is there.”

I thanked him again and we said our
goodnights. I dropped my bag to the floor and kicked off my shoes, then climbed
onto the bed, fully dressed.

_______________

The masked figure was back. It was dark. I was in a house I
hadn’t seen in years. The figure was coming toward me, slowly, one stalking
step after another. The shiny silver blade of the long, ugly knife gleamed in
the figure’s right hand. The dark eyes visible through the black slits twinkled
with joy and excitement. Terror gripped me. I couldn’t move. My feet rooted to
the floor, I stood helpless, watching, as the figure loomed closer and closer.
The knife seemed to get longer with each step.

I could tell the figure was
smirking, enjoying the pursuit. Fear, icy and sharp, vibrated through me in
waves as the figure reached up and pulled off the mask. My father laughed
maniacally as he threw the mask aside and lunged forward, thrusting the knife
toward my abdomen.

Shuddering, I shot up in bed,
gasping as I threw myself backward in an effort to escape the attacker who no
longer existed. I winced as my skull knocked against the heavy headboard, and I
desperately tried to stave off panic as I worked to recall where I was. After a
beat, it all came back to me.

Still shaken, I reached out and
flipped on the bedside light, quickly taking in the room, confirming I was
indeed alone. I felt my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jeans and too easily
recalled the feeling of fear vibrating through me in my dream. Funny how the
mind works.

Fully awake now, I realized I was
still dressed, still on top of the covers. I’d intended to just close my eyes
for a minute, but I’d obviously passed out. I shot a glance at the clock on the
table. 6:02.

“This vacation sucks.”

I’d been woken up in the middle of
the night for the third consecutive day of it. Not that I was sleeping well.

I worked the phone out of my
pocket.

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?” The voice was
familiar. And there was no mistaking the worry in it.

I moved to the edge of the bed,
letting my feet dangle, and tried to shake the lingering effects of the
nightmare.

“Just tired of being woken up,” I
said, trying for indignation. “Is this an emergency? If it isn’t, call back in
a double-digit hour.”

“It’s Ellmann. This issue might not
wait until ten o’clock.” 

I sighed. “Shit. This better not
count against my twelve hours; I didn’t call you.”

“This isn’t about you or me. It’s
about your mother.”

The worry had mostly gone, but now
I noticed there was a grim tone to his voice.

“She’s not dead, is she?”

“No. Why would you ask that?”

“That’s the phone call I always
expect when it comes to her.”

He was silent for a beat. “I’m
sorry to hear that.” And he was sincere. “No, she’s not dead. She was arrested.
She’s being arraigned this morning.”

I pulled at my shirt. It was soaked
through with sweat and sticking to my skin. “Did you arrest her?”

“No.”

“Then, so what? It isn’t the first
time; it won’t be the last. Why call me?”

I could almost see him shrug on the
other end of the line. “She asked us to call your brother. Somehow I thought it
was better to call you.”

“Please don’t call him,” I said,
sliding off the side of the bed. “I’ll come get her.”

“Arraignment’s at eight. Need
directions?”

“No.” Unfortunately, I did not.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Where’s her car?”

“Impound.”

“Fantastic.”

I hustled into the bathroom,
grabbing the duffle bag on the way. Last night, Ellmann had permitted me back
into the house once more after the body had been rolled away by the coroner. He’d
stood watch while I packed a few days’ worth of clothes and needed toiletries,
then he’d escorted me back outside.

I hurried through a quick shower
then threw on jeans and a short-sleeved top. I skipped all makeup aside from
several swipes of mascara (which I just can’t bring myself to skip, ever), and left
my hair down to dry, stuffing a hair tie and a couple pins into my pocket for
later, when it started driving me crazy.

Best I could figure, I’d slept a
couple hours, which was basically a nap. I wanted to crawl back in bed, put off
my problems for a while, and sleep until mid-afternoon, but, as tempting as
that was, I knew it wouldn’t solve anything. Not to mention, I doubted I’d get
much sleep given the slant of my dreams these days. And I had no doubt that if
I didn’t go fetch my mother, someone
would
call my brother. I try really
hard to keep him away from all this.

I set the duffle bag on the floor
at the top of the stairs and went to the desk in the loft. It was neat, with
not much lying on it. The laptop was closed. The landline phone was quiet. The
lamp and the printer turned off. Only a couple loose pieces of paper and a
small stack of unopened mail cluttered it. The office space also held two large
black bookcases, which featured an impressively diverse collection of books:
everything from contemporary fiction to classics to biographies. A small
loveseat was pressed against the wall opposite the desk, a book and a blanket
left on one side.

I took a piece of paper from the
printer and scribbled a note for Pezzani, walking it into the kitchen and
leaving it by the coffee pot, which was still half-f from the day before. I
left the house key where it was, grabbed my bag, and locked the door behind me.
I boarded the Lincoln and sailed for the north end of town.

The impound lot was my first stop.
I walked to the small office and spoke with the attendant. It would cost $79.48
to get the car out. I reasoned it was worth the cost. I paid the fee then
accepted the keys. I parked the Lincoln two blocks down, then walked back and
found my mother’s cherry-red Saab 93.

It didn’t take as long at the
impound lot as it had in the past, so I stopped for coffee. I drove to Dazbog
on Cherry, ordered a Brain Damage because it was shaping up to be that kind of
day, then spoke briefly with one of the owners while I waited. Coffee in hand,
I returned to the Saab and drove a few blocks south to the courthouse on
Laporte.

I wasn’t the only one here for
arraignment. Apparently it had been a busy weekend. The parking lot was full. I
had to park on the street a block away.

I found an unoccupied six inches of
bench space outside the courtroom and squeezed in, sipping my coffee. There
were benches lining the hallway in both directions and all were full.
Additional people stood or sat on the floor. It reminded me a lot of the
airport: a bunch of people with other things to do standing around waiting for
an unpleasant experience.

The courtroom doors were pushed
open by a bailiff in a tan uniform, and we all filed in. I found a seat near
the back and settled in for the long haul. The lucky ones would be seen in the
first few minutes. The unlucky ones would be seen after lunch. I had no way of
knowing which my mother would be.

My mother, in all fairness, had
also been subjected to a rough and traumatic upbringing. I’m sure this accounts
for her current condition, though there are different schools of thought on
that subject. Her father had been abusive to her, which seemed to explain why
she ultimately ended up marrying my father, the most abusive man I’ve ever even
heard about. I think the reason I don’t have the same condition is because I
internalize far less than she does. I’m sort of the angry-out-loud type, and
that just isn’t her style. More the suffer-in-silence kind, she’d been
diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder in her late teens.

When she takes her medications as
prescribed and visits her psychiatrist as scheduled, she does fairly well, with
only minimal evidence of her condition noticeable. The problem with Bipolar
people is the same as with schizophrenics, I’m told; when they feel good, they
stop taking their meds like they should and slip right back into the throes of their
diseases. For my mother, this means she alternates every few months between the
highs and the lows.

When she’s in a high, or manic,
state, she sleeps only a few hours every few days, cleans everything excessively,
spends money exorbitantly, has sex unreservedly (with anyone who’s offering—man
or woman), talks too loud, and drives too fast. When she’s manic, she’s the
ultimate partier and all the rage among a certain group of friends, most of
them half her age. When she’s low, or depressed, she sleeps an average of
twenty hours a day and foregoes typical activities of daily living, like
showering, brushing her teeth, and dressing in clean clothes. The chores around
the house go undone unless I do them.

When she’s off her meds, it’s
almost always a couple weeks into her first true depressive state that she
starts taking them correctly again. She enjoys the ups, but not the downs. She
just doesn’t seem to understand she can’t have one without the other, and she
never gives up trying.

Because my mother was currently off
her meds and as manic as I’d ever seen her, I hadn’t been surprised to get
Ellmann’s call. I didn’t have all the details yet, but I’d been telling Ellmann
the truth: this wasn’t her first arrest, and it wouldn’t be her last. Her
arrests were almost always drug- or alcohol-related. My mother was a regular in
the bars in Old Town, at college parties, and at raves. All of those things
have high potential for drawing police attention.

The door behind the bench opened,
and an older woman in a black robe climbed up and sat herself in front of the
court. We were all instructed to rise while she did this, then permitted to sit
when she was settled. At her nod, the bailiff went and opened a door on the
left. A group of five men shuffled in. They were all wearing street clothes and
handcuffs. They all appeared to have had a rough night. One by one, each case
was called. The representative from the district attorney’s office stood and
addressed the judge, making requests that largely had to do with bail. Those who
had defense attorneys stood with them behind the opposite table. Each party
made their requests, the judge made a ruling, and the next case was called.

I’m the oldest, five years older
than my brother, who was actually an accident. I think it’s for this reason my
mother feels about him the way she does. He’s her miracle, the baby that
shouldn’t have been. My father had wanted a boy and had been more than a little
pissed off when I’d turned out to be something else, something he’d punished me
for regularly. He had made it clear to my mother they would continue trying
until he got the little boy he wanted and deserved. Even in my mother’s broken
mind, she’d known having more children with that man would be a mistake. So, in
an uncharacteristic moment of clear and selfless thought, she had the delivery
doctor tie her tubes, unbeknownst to her husband. Knowing this had happened, it
made the existence of my brother just that much more precious.

The reason my father had wanted a
baby boy was because domestic violence (perhaps the worst on record, according
to local police), hadn’t been his only bag. He’d had another dirty little
secret: unspeakable acts against little boys.

Now, when I was nine, ten, eleven,
I couldn’t even pretend to be worldly or wise, but I had recognized the way my
father had began to look at my brother was wrong; it had scared me. I hadn’t understood
at the time what depraved thoughts had been running through his sick head, but
I’d known they were bad. After the baby had been born, I’d made a point of
standing between him and my father, the way my mother wouldn’t, the way she
hadn’t ever stood between my father and me. There had been very few occasions
when the man had laid an angry, hurtful hand on Zach.