Twenty-Four

AmyJo flung open my door as soon as I reached it. She grabbed my sleeve and yanked me inside. When I regained my balance she pointed at the clock. “In four minutes I was going to call 911.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to leave you a note.”

“Where were you?”

“Almost as soon as we got home, Suzanne left again so I followed her.” I told AmyJo the rest of the story. I finished with, “I know she didn’t do it. I’m crossing her off my list for good. I don’t care what Detective Campbell says.”

“But he’s the one who gets to say.”

“I know. So the only way I can keep Suzanne from going away for a very long time is to find the real killer.”

“Who’s left on the list? Go one by one and let’s talk it through.”

I crossed to the table and picked up the notepad. “Melinda.”

“No way. Nobody kills themself like that.”

I nodded and sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding crossing her off because if she killed herself, then nobody I know is a murderer.” I put a line through Melinda’s name as well as Suzanne’s.

“Next.”

“Melinda’s husband, Henry.”

AmyJo stared at a spot over my shoulder. “Don’t you think if there was a whiff of guilt with Henry, the police would be all over him?”

“Yeah, but still, he has a pretty strong motive. I didn’t think so until I went over there and he was all ready to step into Melinda’s business. In less than two days he’d brought himself up to speed on all her clients.”

“Maybe he’d always been involved in the agency.”

“Maybe.”

“And doesn’t he run a successful business himself?”

“Seems like it. But maybe he ran up a ton of gambling debts or has a drug problem or spent a fortune on strippers.”

“Don’t you think the police would have found all that out by now?”

I nodded, glumly. “But if it can’t be Melinda killing herself, I want it to be him. Everyone else is a friend of mine.”

“I know.” AmyJo was quiet a moment. “Plus, you said yourself that Detective Campbell was apparently taking the easiest path. Seems like the husband would be way easier than Suzanne. I’ve gotta believe they don’t have anything on Henry.” She gestured at the list. “Who’s next?”

“Kell, of course.” I checked the time. “In a couple hours I can try to catch his secretary and verify his alibi, before she gets busy.” I looked at AmyJo and pursed my lips. “The only others are Heinrich and Einstein.”

“I already told you what I think about Einstein. And Heinrich has that thing with your brother.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t think straight. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going to sleep until dinnertime.”

“You can’t. It’s Monday … critique group day.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You have to. It’ll give you an opportunity to cross off Heinrich, Kell, and Einstein. Maybe.”

I knew she was right, but that didn’t make me any more excited about going. How long had it been since I’d pulled all-nighters? A million years?

“Fine. But I’m taking a nap till it’s time to go.”

AmyJo grabbed my phone and set an alarm. “I turned the volume all the way up. No excuses.”

“Yes, Mom.” I ushered her out the door. “See you there.”

•

Two and a half hours later the alarm blared, causing me to launch myself out of bed and flail around the room searching for it. I finally found it propped against my jewelry box where AmyJo left it.

I wasn’t rested but I was standing, so I stepped into the shower, where I do my best thinking. I planned how I’d phrase my question about Kell’s alibi. I preferred to cross him off before the meeting, if at all possible.

After making coffee and a piece of toast, I looked online for the flights Kell could have taken: one departing sometime after the fundraiser at the zoo Sunday night, the other returning early Monday morning, the day of Melinda’s murder. Then I dialed his corporate phone number. I sat at my kitchen table and asked the receptionist to put me through to his office. Instead of using my name, I tried something different this time.

It worked, because instead of the receptionist taking my name and message again, Kell’s private secretary answered. “Kell Mooney’s office.”

I crossed my fingers, hoping I’d remembered the right airline. “I’m calling on behalf of National Airlines. We found a Rolex watch on a recent flight and are checking with all of our first-class passengers to see if they’ve lost one.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Mooney isn’t in right now.”

I gave her the flight information for the Monday morning flight. “Can you confirm he was on that particular flight? If not, then I don’t need to bother him.”

“Let me check.”

While I listened to the hold music, I noticed my tremor was in perfect syncopation with the tune.

The secretary came back. “Yes, he was on that flight.”

I took another wild stab. “That’s good to hear, but I’m a bit confused, looking at this paperwork. I show that his flight from Denver to Chicago was just six hours earlier. Surely that’s incorrect?”

She paused, then said, “No, that’s right. He was escorting a minor child.”

I loudly shuffled papers. “I don’t see a second passenger on his itinerary.”

“The child’s mother bought the ticket.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was a spring break trip for the girl to visit her dad in Chicago.” The secretary’s voice took on a softness. “The mother couldn’t take her there because at the last minute Mr. Mooney needed her in London for the company. He felt bad, so he escorted the daughter to Chicago, then flew right home. Never even left the airport. The things he does for his employees. Should I have him call you about the watch?”

“Only if he wants to claim it.” I hung up without giving her any contact information. Let her think I was incompetent. But at least I’d been able to confirm Kell’s alibi, cross him off my suspect list, and be reminded of what a nice guy he was.

It made it the teensiest bit easier to make the decision to attend my writing group. I bundled my coat around me.

The complex’s parking lot was busy at this time on a Monday morning, with all the upwardly mobile young professionals on their way to their upwardly mobile careers. Cars moved in and out of parking spaces, half of them sweeping headlights across the lot, half of them dark. That’s what overcast March mornings are like in Colorado. Never quite sure when daylight is.

My fellow residents and I cautiously picked our way over icy spots and snow drifts. With as much snow as we’d had Saturday night, no matter how fastidiously walks got shoveled and parking lots got plowed, no one could get it all. The unlucky commuters without covered spots had to scrape ice from windshields and push off flawless mounds of snow that added almost a foot of height to their cars. They also had to excavate the drifts packed against their tires. As was the habit of most people who lived in snowy climes, nobody thought to allow extra time to do this. There is nothing more karmic—or dangerous—than commuters in a rush who fail to clear the snow from the roof of their car, only to stop suddenly and have it all slide forward onto the windshield, blinding them.

Some of the complex’s residents were heading toward Espresso Yourself for their daily grind before attempting their daily grind. At least I assumed they were residents. Some, perhaps, were in the midst of their walk of shame after an ill-advised one-night stand. I studied the bodies hunched against the morning chill, snow squeaking and crunching under their feet, to see if I could detect any of these unfortunate souls. But everyone looked the same—cold, cranky, and pressed for time.

The wind had kicked up and I clutched my celery-colored travel mug of coffee as I stepped from the sidewalk, head lowered against the blowing snow. I heard an engine rev to my left and raised my eyes. An SUV swerved around me at the last second. I stopped, hoping the driver saw my hands-up apology for not watching for traffic, expecting something similar in return. The car sped up, the driver never even glancing my way.

No acknowledgment at all? And he’d sped up. If this was one of my novels, I would make it clear the driver had purposely tried to run me down. But was this like fiction? Lately the line had kept blurring for me. Had someone just tried to run me down? Same as in Dave and Veta’s neighborhood? I thought back to all my jumping at shadows and noises. There were explanations for all of them: Suzanne popping up unexpectedly, rabbits, that stray dog, maintenance men in the complex, jokers writing messages in the dirt on my car. All logical. My imagination was playing tricks on me and working overtime. But none of that eased the knot in my stomach. I hurried to my car, head on a swivel.

Even though I’d parked only a couple of hours earlier, my windows had iced over. I tramped around to the passenger side to ferret out the long-handled scraper I kept under the seat. I opened the door and saw the gigantic trash bag of Goodwill donations. Still there. I could drop it off on my way. I situated my coffee in the cupholder and then thrashed around, feeling with one arm for the scraper. I found it, dragged it out, and dropped my messenger bag on the floor in front of the Goodwill donation.

I worked up a sweat scraping, then slipped into the driver’s seat. I took a sip of coffee and checked the clock on the dashboard. No time to swing by Goodwill after all, despite not having to stop at Espresso Yourself this morning thanks to Ozzi’s gift of ground coffee from the grocery store.

I backed out of my parking space, bumping over the icy moguls I hoped would melt before July, and waited for a steady line of cars to pass. I took the opportunity to sip until a good Samaritan in a dark SUV finally took pity and waved me in. I hurriedly replaced my travel mug in the cupholder and swung into the lane, at the same time trying to bring up my hand in thanks. I hoped they saw, since I couldn’t see through their tinted windows.

As I drove through the parking lot, I thought about the SUV that had almost hit me. The driver didn’t really try to run me down, did he? We’d never made eye contact, so maybe he never actually saw me. Ozzi got that way sometimes when he was thinking about work. More than once I’d seen him let a perfectly chilled beer get warm while he stared into space, mulling some computer problem. When he returned to earth, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gone. Maybe this snowy morning was like that for some other driver. I hoped they would snap out of it before something bad happened.

The streets became more and more major, yet not completely plowed, as I made my way through Aurora. I loved the diversity of the area. Colorado is very Caucasian, but my zip code had bodegas, Asian markets, authentic ethnic restaurants of every stripe, and was home to a huge Muslim population. Of course, it also had a notorious red-light district, plenty of meth houses, and an often large and unruly homeless population.

I wondered again about Daryl living behind Espresso Yourself. What was his story? How long had he been there? How long had he and Suzanne been friendly? What could I do for him?

I reached the freeway on-ramp and began to slow down sooner than I normally would because of the icy road. I crawled to a stop behind three cars at the ramp meter. I sipped my coffee. Still half-full, and I was halfway to Kell’s. Perfect. More cars lined up behind me. Was that the same SUV that almost hit me? I peered through my rearview mirror but couldn’t tell. Probably not. SUV is the new black, I decided. The new fashion vehicle. They were everywhere and probably all had those tinted windows.

The meter turned green for me and I gently stepped on the gas. My rear end fishtailed on the slick pavement. My coffee jostled in the cupholder while I got a rush of adrenaline. The freeway was crowded but flowed smoothly, since people were taking it easy with the road conditions. “Slow and steady wins the race,” I reminded myself.

As I glanced back to check the freeway traffic, I saw the SUV behind me. I merged, took control of the lane like I was taught, and glanced behind to change lanes. The SUV was still right behind me. I changed lanes again. So did the SUV.

Almost as soon as I was traveling in my comfort zone—fast, but not overly so, in the fast lane—I came up on a Volkswagen driving well below the speed limit, even for the imperfect conditions. Texas plates. Figures. Scared of a little snow. I tapped my brakes but got a tad too close to their rear bumper, to make sure they knew I was there and not entirely happy with their choices this morning.

They didn’t seem to care what I thought, so I passed them on the right and slipped back into the fast lane. So did the SUV. Weird. I flashed back to my book Pursued to Death, where the killer stalked my poor victim mercilessly until finally running her off the road. But that was set in a rural area, not a busy city freeway. But still. If somebody caused an accident and then sped off, I doubted any of these people would know what had happened. Everyone was in their own little bubble. The SUV was creeping me out, though, always behind me that way.

I increased my speed in the fast lane to pass a Honda traveling in the lane to my right, then eased in front of it, almost equidistant between it and a Subaru hatchback.

The SUV slid in behind the Honda even though the fast lane was clear. I watched to see if they were in the process of easing over toward the exit coming up. Nope. Knuckles white on my steering wheel, I decided to take the exit. I made a last-second dash for it, making other drivers hit their brakes as I stole the merge. I slid across two lanes to the off-ramp.

My coffee flew from the inadequate cupholder and bounced off the bag for Goodwill. The lid flew the opposite direction. “Dammit!” Warmth from the coffee spread over my right knee.

At the bottom of the exit, the light was green at the cross street. Knowing I couldn’t stop to make a turn without sliding, I continued straight through, to the on ramp on the other side to get back on the freeway. Smart, I thought. I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I’d have to remember this for my next book. I merged back into freeway traffic, which was a bit lighter now, it seemed. I glanced back to change lanes.

The SUV was behind me again.

I peered through my mirror. Was it the same car? My imagination had been working overtime this past week. Was this another example? My eyes darted back and forth between it and the traffic in front of me. It seemed like the same one, but I was heading toward the Stepford suburbs where every soccer mom drove an SUV. I glanced to my left. Blue SUV. In front of it a green one. Two more black ones. Another blue one up ahead to my right.

But none of them with tinted windows like that. My imagination flared and my heart raced. That SUV was definitely following me. My tremor increased with my adrenaline and I gripped the wheel tighter. I made another last-minute, fishtailing dart across traffic to the next exit. It might have been the only time in my life I wished a cop would pull up behind me. I had to swerve to the right around the traffic slowing at Hampden Avenue.

The light was red, but I barely slowed as I turned right, glancing left to look for cars coming through the intersection. The visibility was bad, but I didn’t see anyone and prayed it was true. I slid across two lanes and held my breath that any cars coming would see me. A blast of a horn told me they did and were none too happy about it.

If I kept going west, I’d hit University in a few miles. I could take it north, toward Lance’s precinct. I was sure there was probably a closer police station, but I knew exactly where Lance’s was. And if he was there, even better.

The roads were better plowed on the west side of the city, or perhaps they hadn’t received as much snow, and I could see large patches of asphalt. I breathed a bit easier as I dodged through traffic, glad most people were at work or school already. It made it easier to travel. But also easier for a stalker to spot me.

The traffic light ahead changed and cars slowed in front of me. I stepped on the brake but it didn’t depress. I wasn’t sliding, but I was hurtling toward the cars at full speed. A sedan with a Baby on Board sign loomed in front of me. In desperation, I stomped my foot on the brake so hard I thought it would go through the floorboard. I yanked the wheel to the right to avoid a rear-end collision, and barely missed both the sedan and the honking Jeep in the right lane.

Everything was at a standstill at the red light, my car angled across two lanes. I released my white-knuckled grip on my steering wheel and felt around the brake pedal until I found shards of a smashed celery-colored travel mug. I refused to look at the driver of the Jeep, already knowing he was livid, and dropped the plastic pieces on the floor in front of the Goodwill bag.

The light changed and I pulled the rest of the way in front of the Jeep. I drove slowly, still shaky. Glancing around, I didn’t see the SUV. I’d lost them.

As I traveled past the businesses on the opposite side of the intersection, a blush crept up my neck even though I was alone in the car. That SUV hadn’t been following me. Just a coincidence. My over-active imagination. The stress of the last week. I exhaled slowly, sending up thanks that I hadn’t hit anyone but furious at myself, and at that crazy SUV, for terrifying me.

Coming up on University forced a decision. To the right, to Lance’s precinct? To the left, to Kell’s and the critique group? I checked behind and still didn’t see any sign of the SUV.

Left.

I bumped into Kell’s driveway ten minutes late.