The Trouble With Murder (18 page)

_______________

East Moon Asian Bistro and Hibachi is one of the new restaurants
on Harmony Road just west of the newly constructed Front Range Village. The
main entrance is on the west end and opens onto a wide sidewalk leading to the patio
and a large fire pit, which was currently unlit.

Inside, Pezzani was waiting on a
bench. A smiling blonde girl manned the hostess station. To the right, the
restaurant is arranged in typical fashion with booths and tables, many of which
were occupied with the lunch crowd. To the left, the restaurant is sectioned
off with floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass. On the other side of the glass are
large Hibachi tables designed to seat eight diners. Two of them were occupied
with large groups, Asian men dressed in black uniforms and red chef hats stood
behind each. The occasional burst of flame and skillful tossing of utensils
completed the show.

A large bar separates the two
sections of the restaurant. The left side of the counter is high, with
barstools pushed up to it. The right is much lower, with chairs and fancy
plates at each seat. Another Asian man in a black uniform and red hat was behind
the counter preparing food. This was the Sushi bar.

Pezzani stood when he saw me,
taking me in. He was dressed in what I’d come to recognize as his work attire:
black polo with company logo, perfectly fitted blue jeans, and black boots.

“You look nice,” he said. But I
thought there was a hint of amusement in his voice. I didn’t know what to make
of that.

I’d stopped crying halfway to the
restaurant, but I imagined my eyes were still red. He didn’t seem to notice.
For which I was grateful. I didn’t want to talk about it. I couldn’t help but
think Ellmann would have noticed, though.

“This is my interview costume,” I
said, hoping to end the discussion.

We followed the hostess to a booth
along the back wall, declining an offer to sit at the bar and passing on the
Hibachi experience of it all. Our waitress appeared, introducing herself and
reciting the specials. We ordered drinks and she left to get them. We consulted
the piece of paper on the end of the table, discussing Sushi.

Before I heard it, I felt it. The
atmosphere in the restaurant changed. An instant before, it had been filled
with typical dining sounds: the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of
silverware on plates. The soft overhead music had created a soothing ambiance.
But, as if a switched had been flipped, the entire room fell silent. The only
sound remaining was the music, which, in that brief moment, was deafening.

The silence lasted for a
millisecond, just long enough to grab my attention. As I looked up, I realized
it had been the calm before the storm. There were several gasps accompanied by
a chorus of screams. As quickly as the last, another switch was flipped.
Suddenly, it was pandemonium. People screamed and clamored, dishes broke,
chairs scraped the floor and fell over. At the same time, I saw a familiar figure
step around the end of the bar into the dining room.

A figure dressed head-to-toe in
black, wearing a ski mask. And the figure had a new accessory: a big, shiny
gun.

The figure spotted me and began
firing. Self-preservation kicked in, as automatic to me as breathing. Before
the first bullet left the gun, I was out of the booth and scurrying across the
floor toward the bar. I wanted to put something very large between the shooter
and myself.

The shooter charged through the
restaurant. Bullets peppered the walls. The report from the gun battered my
unprotected eardrums almost palpably. One, two, three . . . . The wall art
burst and crashed to the wooden floor.

Pezzani was right behind me. We hit
the deck and across the floor for a moment. Then we scrambled, desperate for my
shoes to gain purchase on the polished hardwood floor. The shots continued,
trailing our forward movement. Eight, nine, ten . . .

In dogged pursuit, the shooter swung
the gun after us. Bullets sailed over our heads. They struck the glass panels.
The glass shattered and rained to the floor.

Behind the bar, I shot to my feet
and sprinted forward, keeping my head down. Pezzani was on my heels. We were
between the bar and the glass. The panels shattered in sync with the report of
the gun. Each one exploded as we passed. The glass flew everywhere, spraying
over my right side.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
Finally, the gunshots stopped. I heard the harmless
click, click, click
of the trigger pulling on an empty gun.

I looked behind me to see if the
figure was reloading. Still clutching the gun in his or her right hand, the
figure sprinted forward but made no effort to reload. I stopped, turning to
face the figure. I could see nothing in the gloved hands apart from the empty
gun. However, I kept my eyes peeled for a knife.

The black-clad figure charged
forward, black eyes burning into me. I dropped into a familiar defensive
stance. Suddenly, the figure’s eyes cut to my left, toward the door. Without
slowing, the figure tore by, barreling through the exit. I hurried after him or
her. I hit the sidewalk in time to see the figure jump into the passenger side
of a small, white compact car. The car tore out of the lot with a screech of
the tires.

My chest heaved and my already
taxed muscles burned. I bent forward and put my hands on my knees, sucking in air.
Yesterday, when I’d returned to the house and found the dead guy, I hadn’t
really considered that I’d been the target. I couldn’t say for sure the attack
in the restaurant had been directed at me, either, but it seemed plausible. At
least, I was now willing to consider it. What I didn’t know was why someone was
trying to kill me. Neither did I know who that someone might be.

Standing upright, I went back
inside. Pezzani was at the hostess station talking on the phone, the hostess
hysterical beside him. I noticed he had red gashes on his arm and face from the
glass. Looking at my arm for the first time, I saw I was in the same condition.
Some of the wounds were rather deep. Pezzani hung up then noticed me.

“Police are on the way.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was
sitting on the bumper of the ambulance beside Pezzani, an EMT tending to the
worst of my lacerations. The parking lot was crammed full of emergency response
vehicles and rubberneckers. The police were speaking to witnesses, taking
statements, and writing reports. Those few who had needed medical care were
being tended to in the parking lot, no one requiring serious attention or
transport to the ER.

The EMT secured a bandage around my
upper arm as a navy blue Charger stopped at the curb behind two patrol cars. I
wasn’t surprised to see it here. But I was a bit surprised by the mix of
emotions I felt as a result.

Ellmann had on aviator-style
sunglasses and a pissed-off look. He crossed the sidewalk to the nearest
uniformed officer and spoke to him briefly. The officer used his hands to point
in several directions as he responded. In following the officer’s finger, Ellmann
had looked toward the parking lot and spotted me sitting on the ambulance. He concluded
the conversation and started over. He stopped in front of me and planted both
hands on his hips. Even through the shades, I could see the unfriendly look in
his eyes.

“Oh, Alex,” Pezzani said, standing
and offering his hand. “Or, Detective Ellmann, I should say. Good to see you
again.”

Ellmann shook the other man’s hand
unenthusiastically, so busy glaring at me he barely glanced at Pezzani.

“What happened?” he asked.

Pezzani launched into an account of
the event, though I was pretty sure Ellmann had been asking me. I was content
to merely listen, letting Pezzani explain while the EMT continued to bandage my
wounds. After reaching the end, Pezzani sighed and shrugged.

“That’s when the police showed up,”
he finished.

Ellmann was nodding his head,
listening and absorbing the details, never looking away from me. He wasn’t
taking notes as he typically did, though. I wondered if that meant this
wouldn’t be his case. I thought it should be, since it seemed connected to the
others, but what did I know?

The EMT taped the last dressing and
stood. “Several of those need sutures. We can take you to the ER, or you can go
on your own.”

“I’ll go on my own,” I said. “I
probably shouldn’t leave just now anyway.” Even if I wanted to avoid the
conversation I knew was coming.

“Sounds good.” He reached for a
clipboard and made several checkmark. Then he held it and the pen out to me.
“Just sign this.”

I signed the document, relieving the
ambulance service of any guilt and legal responsibility regarding my injuries,
and handed it back. The EMT signed as a witness then tore off a carbon copy and
handed it to me. He shook my hand and wished me well, then turned his attention
to other things. Pezzani and I stood, both bandaged on our right sides, and
moved away from the ambulance.

“Have you given your statements?”
Ellmann asked.

“No, not yet,” Pezzani said. “We
were sent to the EMTs first.”

Ellmann turned and looked around.
He waved to an officer concluding an interview, calling him over. The man
ambled toward us carrying a clipboard.

“This man needs to make a
statement,” Ellmann said, pointing to Pezzani. “He’s finished with the medics.
Will you take him and get him started?”

“No problem. If you’ll just come
with me, sir.”

Pezzani moved off after the
officer.

Ellmann reached out and wrapped his
hand around my uninjured left arm, guiding me toward the far side of the
parking lot, where a six-foot privacy fence had been erected between the shopping
center and the trailer park. Only when we reached the curb did he release me.

“What happened?” he asked again,
pulling off his sunglasses. He studied the cuts on my face and seemed
particularly upset by the laceration on my cheekbone.

I shrugged. “Joe gave a pretty good
account.”

He just stared at me.

“What?” I asked.

He sighed and tugged a hand back
through his hair. “I asked for twelve hours,” he said. “
Twelve hours
.
How hard could that be? Do you know how long it’s been? Nine.”

“Hey, you said not to call you for
twelve hours. Once again, I didn’t call you.”

“I said no emergencies or problems.
This is both.”

“Well, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t
call you. And I didn’t ask that gunman to come shoot the place up.”

“You’re like a walking magnet for
trouble. It follows you wherever you go. With you, it’s one disaster after
another. What will be next? We’ve already got assault, murder, and now a gunman
in a restaurant. I hate to think about what will happen next. I mean, you’ve
got to be running out of lives by now.”

My gut lurched, and I winced. Tears
sprang instantly to my eyes. Hadn’t the hospital called him?

“Actually, it’s two murders.”

“What?” He hadn’t missed my
reaction, and now he realized it had nothing to do with his lecture. “What do
you mean?”

“I just came from the hospital. Stacy
. . . didn’t make it.” My voice was tight, and with the last few words, my
restraint was zapped. I began to sob, tears streaking down my cheeks again.

“I thought you’d been crying,” he
sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Ellmann took a step forward then
stopped himself. Instead, he reached a hand out and put it on my shoulder. It
was strong, warm, and comforting. I appreciated his small gesture.

He stood for several minutes,
waiting patiently while I worked to get myself under control. Then he asked a
couple questions. I filled him in on the details I had, few as they were. He
was genuinely upset to hear the news. I also suspected a small part of that had
to do with the fact that I was upset.

“I asked you specifically not to
get into any trouble, and you went to the hospital?” he asked, resuming the
lecture. “How does that make sense to you?”

“I’m fine, by the way,” I said,
cutting off his tirade. I just didn’t have it in me to listen to any more
lecturing. My tolerance for it is low on my best day. And I was not having the
best day.

My words seemed to sober him. He
stopped and sighed again, eyeing the bandages then looking down at his boots.
When he spoke next, his voice was much softer.

“Are you really okay? Is this the
worst of it?” He pointed to my arm.

I nodded as I looked at my arm. I
saw now it was shaking. In fact, my whole body ached, my muscles tight and
trembling. It was the lingering effect of the adrenaline. And maybe some fear.

“Yes. I’m fine. A few stitches and
I’ll be good as new.”

“I got called because the reports
started coming in about a shooter dressed in black with a ski mask, just like
my other case, and maybe they’re connected. I just knew you were here. And no
one could tell me if anyone was hurt. I . . . I was scared.”

I was quiet for a beat.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I didn’t
ask you to worry about me.”

Also, I didn’t know how I felt
about it.

“Not that it would change
anything.”

“No,” I said. “Trouble magnetism is
like a disease with no cure.”

Since lunch out had been a disaster, Pezzani and I went back
to his house and ordered in. I noticed Pezzani had paused before opening the
door, looking out to make sure the sandwich guy wasn’t wearing a ski mask and
holding a gun. Turned out he was unarmed.

The shooting incident had been
unsettling, to say the least. I didn’t know whom the figure had been shooting
at, though I had my suspicions. I didn’t know why the figure was shooting. I
didn’t know who had done the shooting. I didn’t know what, if anything, the
shooting had to do with Stacy Karnes. I didn’t know if Tyler Jay was connected.
If he was, I didn’t know how.

All of this bothered me. I’ve never
liked questions with no answers. Actually, most of the trouble I’ve found
myself in throughout my life could very well be blamed on this very phenomenon.
And I don’t like when people start catching on to the fact that I really have
no idea what I’m doing, what I’m talking about, or what’s going on.

After lunch, I called my mechanic
again. This time he answered. But there had been no progress. I had, naively,
expected different news.

I was lying on the living room
floor with my legs on the sofa. My arms were flung out to each side, and I had
my eyes closed. I was concentrating on breathing slowly and evenly, while trying
to organize and focus my thoughts.

My phone, lying somewhere on the
floor near my head, started ringing. By the third ring, I was still debating
whether or not I would answer. Finally, I picked it up and pressed it to my ear,
not opening my eyes.

“Zoe Grey?”

“Yes.”

“This is Karen Lerman calling from King
Soopers. How are you?”

The woman I’d interviewed with that
morning. “I’m well, thanks,” I lied. “Yourself?”

“Just fine, thank you for asking. I
was calling you back about the job. It didn’t take us as long as we anticipated
to make a decision. I’d like to offer you the position.”

We hashed out a few details, and I
ultimately agreed. I’d make decent—if not excellent—money, work thirty-two
hours a week, including every other weekend, and be located at the Taft and
Elizabeth store. I agreed to start tomorrow.

I’d barely put the phone down when
it rang again. I thought it was Karen calling back about something she’d
forgotten. I answered without looking at the display.

“Someone was murdered on the
property?” a shrill voice demanded. Not Karen Lerman.

I pinched my eyebrows together.
“Who is this?

“Margaret Fischer from Fort Collins
Property Management. I’ve been getting phone calls all morning from other
renters on that block. They’ve been telling me all about the police activity
and the coroner van and the cops asking them what they knew about the guy who
was murdered inside the house I just rented to you. I just got off the phone
with the police. They say the house is an active crime scene.”

She stopped and waited expectantly,
as if I was supposed to say something.

I didn’t know what.

“Okay. And?”

“And?” she spat back. “
And
I’d like to know what the hell is going on. Is there a dead person in the
living room of the property?”

“No. The dead guy is in the
morgue.”

She sighed as if she already knew
that.

I wondered, then, why she’d asked.

“Who is he? Is he someone you know?
Did you kill him? The police won’t tell me anything except the place is a crime
scene. I have to tell you, there are some serious breaches in contract here.”

“Excuse me?” I said, cracking an
eye for the first time. “Did you really just ask me if I killed him? What kind
of question is that?”

“A valid and relevant one,” she
quipped. “Criminal activity of any kind is expressly prohibited in the rental
agreement you signed. That being the case, I find you to be in violation of the
contract, which makes it null and void. You’ll have to vacate the premises
immediately.”

I shot up and scurried away from
the sofa.

“
What
? You’re accusing me of
murder and subsequently evicting me? You have got to be kidding.”

My tone had caused Pezzani to wander
over from where he’d been working at his desk. He stood looking at me
curiously, wondering what had caused my outburst.

“I am very serious. We here at Fort
Collins Property Management take murder and all other crimes very seriously. We
will not tolerate any crime on our properties. When can you be out? We’ll have
to have the place cleaned, which, of course, will come out of your deposit.”

“That is absolutely unacceptable. I
will not be charged for cleaning up after a murder I had nothing to do with.”

“We are within the rights granted
to us by the contracts and agreements you signed, and we will enforce them
fully.”

I drilled my finger into the
end
button.

I mumbled something to Pezzani, told
him I’d call him later, then grabbed my bag and left. I whipped the Cushman out
of the lot and into traffic, heading to the office of Fort Collins Property Management,
and the desk of Margaret Fischer.

With more angry movements, I found
Ellmann’s number and dialed it. The line rang five times and I wondered if he
was intentionally avoiding my call, fearing another emergency or problem, either
of which, at this time, would have been well within the twelve-hour window I’d
been given. Finally, the call was answered.

“I need the name of that mechanic,”
I said, skipping everything else, like identifying myself.

“Hello to you, too,” he said
lightly. He recited the number. “You sound pissed. Your mechanic try to jip you
again?”

“No. Well, yes, probably. Whatever.
The truck still isn’t ready, he hasn’t even looked at it, and I need it back
yesterday. I’m going to have to move again.”

“What? Why?”

I explained.

There was a long silence. “You’re
joking.”

“Again, not something I’d joke
about.”

I disconnected and dialed the
number he gave me. A nice-sounding man answered, and I asked for Manny.

“I’m Manny. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Zoe Grey. I got your
number from Detective Ellmann. I’m having a problem with my truck.”

“What’s the problem?”

I sighed and managed not to roll my
eyes. If I knew what was wrong with the damn thing, I wouldn’t be calling him.

“It’s not running. Currently it’s
at my mechanic’s shop, but it’s been there a lot recently, so I’m looking for a
new mechanic.”

“I’m your guy. Alex is good people;
he’s done right by me and a couple friends. So, any friend of his is a friend
of mine. Can you get it to my place?”

“Yes.”

“If you bring it by today, I’ll
take a look at it. Most problems are simple. My guess, you have a simple
problem. Problem is, simple doesn’t always mean cheap. Simple just means I can
find it faster.”

He gave me an address and his cell
phone number, and we disconnected. I’d arrived in the parking lot outside the
property management office and was sitting on the scooter. I made one more
call. My brother didn’t answer, so I left a semi-urgent message and tucked the
phone into my pocket.

Half an hour later, I stormed out
of the office, beat-red and so angry I could have breathed fire if I’d tried.
When I’d arrived, Margaret was in her office with the door closed. The
teeny-bopper receptionist, who didn’t look old enough to drive, had informed me
Margaret couldn’t be disturbed, and if I wanted to see her, I’d need to make an
appointment. In a moment of temporary insanity, I’d stomped around her desk and
flung Margaret’s door open. She’d been sitting behind her desk, her stocking
feet propped up on it and crossed at the ankles, talking on the phone. At the
sight of me, she’d quickly ended the phone call and informed me my behavior was
beyond unacceptable. I leveled the same accusation at her. We argued for the
better part of thirty minutes.

“You signed a contract,” Margaret
had said.

“Which you deemed null and void.”

“Yes, because of the crime.”

“The same contract which allows you
to keep my deposit.”

“Yes.”

“The contract that is now null and
void.”

This was the basis of my argument.
She’d fumbled and stuttered and grasped at straws. Then she’d resorted to
finger-pointing, and later name-calling. She’d held her ground, though,
refusing to give up at all costs.

I finally had to leave. My learned
behaviors are violent, all of them. Well, almost all. Just then, the anger and
frustration raged inside me, and I knew I was on the edge. The scales were
precariously balanced, and a feather on either side would tip them. It would
have been all too easy for me to crawl over Margaret’s desk and strangle her.

_______________

I drove to my house, or my former house, also known as the
crime scene. I parked and went to the side of the house, where I scrambled over
the four-foot chain-link fence, snagging my already ruined suit pants.

Ellmann had not put any stickers on
the sliding glass door or the garage door. I used my key to let myself in
through the garage. Inside, the place smelled like gunpowder, blood, and
something I would have labeled “death.”

I hurried through the living room,
skirting around the huge dark stain in the middle of the floor, and into the
bedroom. I found the box I was looking for in the corner under two others. I
ripped it open and dug inside, pulling out the medium-sized lockbox. I unlocked
it and lifted the lid.

Inside lay three handguns. I wasn’t
entirely convinced the shooter in the restaurant had been gunning for me. But
no one had been killed. That seemed like the intent, so it was reasonable to
conclude whoever it was would try again. On the off chance I was the target, I
wanted to even the playing field.

I chose the Glock .45 and a full
magazine, sliding it into the gun with the heel of my hand. I chambered a round
and made sure the safety was on. I also collected two additional magazines and
a box of .45 rounds. I dropped everything into my bag and left the way I’d
come.

It’s illegal to carry a concealed handgun,
like I was doing. I had never applied for a permit because I’d never had any
need or desire to tote a gun around with me. Until now.  

My next stop was the shooting
range. I was no stranger to guns, but it had been several months since I’d shot
any, so I thought a brush-up session would do me good. After the shooting range
and an entire box of .45 rounds, I was feeling a lot more in control of my life
and the situation, whatever situation that was.

And after towing my truck to the
new mechanic’s shop, I was also feeling a lot more optimistic about the future.
I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but I felt like Manny would actually fix
the truck and not try to con me. I wondered if that had something to do with
Ellmann, and that Manny would ultimately have to answer to the detective if he
cheated me. I wish I could say it was me that had put the fear in him, but I
was obviously no threat. Just ask my last mechanic.

Amy was out of town, her future
in-laws crashing at her house for the rest of the week, and Sadie’s apartment wouldn’t
be ready for human habitation for another forty-eight hours. With my notes and
the newspaper spread out before me, I made several more phone calls regarding
my housing problem. I called the leasing agents I’d contacted previously and discovered
I had only one hang-up. I didn’t know how long my current place would be a
crime scene. Until it was released, I couldn’t move. So, I ended up back at
Pezzani’s for a second night.

We watched
X-Files
reruns
for a while, munching on popcorn. Pezzani stole a kiss, which was slow at
first, more exploratory, then not so slow and hungry at the end. It had been a
good kiss. Still, I went to the guestroom alone.

Tired, but too restless to sleep, I
sat leaning against the headboard, a piece of paper on my knee. I did math for
a while, figuring out how much money I might get back from Fort Collins
Property Management, how much money I still had in my bank account, how much
money a new move-in would cost, how much money my new job at King Soopers would
net me, and how long I could conceivably make it until I no longer had a penny
to my name. With these depressing figures on my mind, I hauled out the
newspaper and began reading through the help-wanted ads.

I still had the Hobby Lobby
interview lined up. Of course, even though the position was in management, it
was Hobby Lobby; I didn’t exactly see big dollar signs. Realistically, it might
not amount to even a minimalistic existence. It might make a good second job,
if I could work out the details. That being the case, I’d keep the interview,
but also keep my eyes open.

I went to the bathroom and took in
the state of my face. I had gone to the ER for the recommended sutures. Twelve
in all. I washed all of the open wounds with soap and water then smeared
Neosporin over them, bandaging the larger ones. Finished, I returned to bed and
picked up my book. Two hours later, I was closing in on the last page and was as
wide-awake as ever.

Beyond the bedroom door, I heard a
faint scuffle followed by a long creak. The sound itself wasn’t cause for
alarm, yet all the hairs on my body stood on end. Initially, I assumed Pezzani
had wandered out to the kitchen for a midnight snack. But in the time I’d spent
here, I’d never heard anything creak like that. It sounded like a person
opening a door and trying to be sneaky about it. It also sounded farther away
than Pezzani’s door on the main level of the house. It sounded like the front
door.

Dropping the book on the bed, I
rolled to the floor, switching off the lamp as I went. I scurried over to my
bag and reached in for the gun, finding it easily. Holding it in my hand, I
felt a small measure of the control I’d experienced that afternoon return to
me. I was still apprehensive, but the fear was tempered now.