by MJ O'Neill
“Please! Put it down!” I yelled. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“All right. Put it down, Flynn,” Burns said.
“A wise choice,” Chentinko said, throwing Grand to the ground. She whimpered.
I scooped in to get her and deposited her behind the building. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
“It’s not like I’m going for a paddleboat ride.” She pretended to smoke a cigarette.
Bedlam broke out once Grand and I were out of the way. Flynn had engaged several of Chentinko’s men, and Burns had managed to get Chentinko at gunpoint.
Chentinko grinned his evil grin while he and Burns talked.
Then I saw him—Dr. Hawthorne, his gun pointed at Burns. Flynn wouldn’t look up. Burns hadn’t noticed him.
Dr. Hawthorne stalked closer. He was going to shoot.
I ran toward them and knocked the doctor to the ground. A burning pain tore through my knee, and I felt a fist to my eye. Then came the sound of the gun and a hiccup squeal from me.
When I looked down, Dr. Hawthorne was dead. What happened after that was a big blur. Someone pulled me away.
Chentinko ran to a paddleboat, and Burns and Flynn took one of their own. Bullets flew down the Mississippi as the paddleboats sped along. With a final effort, Burns and Flynn both jumped from their boat to Chentinko’s.
The sudden change in weight caused the paddleboat to tip, tossing the laptop into midair. My heart stopped. Burns chased the computer, his face clenched tight with determination. I needed him to catch it. But he was too late. I watched as the laptop landed with a spectacular splat into the river and sank, taking with it both my and Burns’s hope for answers. All that remained were bubbles on the water.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. We sat under the beautiful trees of the park. Music from the outdoor theater played in the background. Grand sat with me. She had a small cut on her arm and some other scrapes but was mostly none the worse for wear.
Burns and Flynn had dragged Chentinko to shore. His grin now gone, replaced with an angry scowl, he sat dripping against an adjacent tree, tied up with one of the ropes from the boat.
“This is not over for us, my love,” he said.
I wanted to throw up. I finally had an excuse to use that card Detective Driscol had given me with his contact info, even if I couldn’t get any words out.
Burns took over the phone. “Cops are on their way.”
A car pulled up near us. I thought one of the detectives would appear. Instead, Claude popped out. He moved slowly, shuffling his feet.
He was dressed in blue slacks and a nice checked button-down with a blue bow tie to match. Grand perked up when she saw him. I assumed she’d called him. He kept his eyes focused on her, moving through the rest of us as though we weren’t even there.
“Are you all right?” he asked, stopping in front of her, close but not touching her.
“Mostly.”
“I’m terribly sorry about all of this, Theodora.”
“It’s okay, Claude. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive me.”
And then Claude Pederski pulled a gun from his pocket, aimed it at Victor Chentinko, and shot him three times in the head.
Epilogue
“Don’t be a turkey. Release Claude Pederski!”
The shouts came from the crowd in front of the morgue. A week had passed since Claude shot Chentinko. It had also been a week since I had become a killer, even though the shooting was ruled in self-defense. Claude, however, had been arrested for murder.
Apparently, a week was the amount of time the hospital administration thought was respectable before sweeping the whole mess under the rug. They insisted the morgue debut party we had planned would be great publicity, especially now that I was no longer a suspect in the body snatching.
While I was sure some of the people loitering about were waiting to get into the party, the majority appeared to be protesters. Their signs poked up and down above the circling crowd as I approached.
“Judicial frauds jailed our Claude!”
For the first few days following Chentinko’s death, a zoo of reporters camped in front of the house. Grand was the star attraction. Everyone wanted the story of the little old couple who had taken on the mob. The more the story got out, the bigger her following. She couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by groupies. People left gifts at the house.
“Stand with Grand! Stand with Grand!” shouted the Grand Groupies, all adorned in matching T-shirts and marching in unison, their synchronicity faltering as I pushed past them into the morgue.
Grand’s celebrity garnered an offer from an agent about a book deal and a movie. Our living room had once again become Scrapbook Central as she worked on a new crime-themed memory book, this time for Claude, convinced that he had shot Chentinko in a show of devotion. She planned to capitalize on her newfound celebrity to gin up jury sympathy so they’d let him off on self-defense by proxy. Based on the size of the mob I had to push my way through to get to the morgue door, she would have a good shot at it.
The crowd inside the morgue was equally thick. I spied the county commissioner and the new acting mayor of St. Louis hobnobbing with some of the hospital administration near the coffee bar. The remodeled space looked as good as I remembered. Although with everything that had happened here, I couldn’t help feeling there was a cloud over it all.
This was the place where someone I trusted had kidnapped my grand and held her at gunpoint. Dr. Hawthorne was also the one who had put the rat in my locker. I thought I had recognized the handwriting on the envelope that day, but I couldn’t quite place it at the time. Now I was reconsidering everything.
Moving through the crowd, I waved at Meg and Henry, who were escorting a woman who I assumed was Henry’s mother. Neutron and Flynn had saved the day for them. He hacked Ariel Rodriguez’s computer and found documentation about her skimming from the store’s books. Flynn told her if she didn’t leave Henry alone and pay him back all the money she’d taken, her daddy dearest and maybe the police would get a very interesting package.
I looked around and headed toward DC and Neutron, who were standing near the new copy machine.
“Who made these up?” Neutron asked as he looked at a bingo card. “Not being able to pee is not a real cause of death.”
“Of course it is. It’s in the book on the fifty weirdest ways to die,” DC replied.
“Hyperplasia of the prostate,” I chimed in, moving in between them and plucking a canapé from Neutron.
DC smiled at me and began a loud clap.
“Here she is, everyone, our own crime-stopping heroine, Ms. Kat Waters.”
Some of the onlookers nearby also clapped. I looked at the ground.
“Oh no, you don’t. I will not let you continue to feel bad about this,” DC said.
“DC’s right, Kat. These were bad men. I’m glad they’re dead and not you and Burns,” Neutron added. He made it sound so simple.
“And you are a badass superwoman,” DC finished.
I knew they were right. In the week since the ordeal, Neutron had filled me in on Chentinko and the Red Mafia, one of the most dreaded mob families in the world because of how savagely they murdered their terrified victims. I’d learned how Chentinko had been shipped here from New York and how much he hated St. Louis. His whole scheme to lean on Mrs. Scott had started as a way to impress his bosses into giving him a ticket out of here. Instead, it had all gone horribly wrong. A couple of weeks ago, the head of the Red Mafia, Simon “The Mole” Mogilevich, came to town. This was a huge deal, apparently. He hadn’t been seen in public for years, but supposedly he was here now, cleaning up Chentinko’s mess.
“So are you officially out of hiding, or is this just a quickie reprieve?” DC asked, eyeing me up and down.
Since the shooting, I hadn’t moved much from my bed. He’d come to see me a few times, but I hadn’t ventured out from the apartment.
&nbs
p; “I’m not in hiding.”
“Uh-huh, and Neutron’s going to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars,” DC said.
“Hey, I hacked someone famous. I could get third-tier celebrity status. You’ve never seen me salsa.” Neutron imitated some fancy footwork.
I appreciated his attempts at cheering me up. “I’m not sure yet. I’m trying to stay in the moment,” I said and dipped a chip in Neutron’s dip.
“Still not sleeping, huh?” he asked.
I shook my head. Since the shooting, nightmares had haunted my dreams. Visions of gunfire intertwined with the sights of Stephanie Jackson’s dead, mangled body, Chentinko’s cruel, evil grin, and Dr. Hawthorne’s last gasp. I contemplated the irony that Chentinko and Dr. Hawthorne were both now lying in the morgue somewhere.
Mostly I had just lain under the covers, trying to process everything. Or not process it, trying instead to compartmentalize it all so I could stuff it in a mental box where it belonged, never to be opened. Screw Master Tahkaswami.
“That settles it. I’m bringing over the Serenity Slumber machine. It has a hundred forty-two settings and is guaranteed to bring you a night of uninterrupted tranquility.”
“Does it play crickets?” Neutron asked. “I always found crickets soothing.”
“You’re a good friend, DC. No Kimi today?” I asked. With Fletcher’s help, DC was being credited as instrumental in bringing the killers to justice. That had brought Kimi around, and the lovebirds were supposedly once again living in domestic harmony.
“You know she wouldn’t be caught dead near here. Kimi could catch a virus just looking at the building. She’s at home trying out a new herbal pet-grooming system. Our pet therapist suggested it might help with their bond.”
“Give her my hellos. I need to mingle,” I said, pointing toward my mom.
“Katherine, what on earth are you wearing?” Mom asked as I approached her and Charles Montgomery, who I’d guessed was there to support his godson, Dr. Jaffe.
I hadn’t bothered to dress in anything formal. Until she said something, I didn’t even remember what I had put on this morning. I looked at my jeans and sweater. “Eh, whatever,” I said.
“I think you look as lovely as always,” Mr. Montgomery said, shaking my hand. “Jeffery is around here somewhere. I’m sure he’d love to say hello.”
Dr. Jaffe had been put on probation and sentenced to mandatory Gambler’s Anonymous meetings, but they hadn’t taken away his medical license. The generous donation Mr. Montgomery and Teradyne Defense had made to both the medical board and the police fund probably hadn’t hurt. Plus, Jaffe had fully cooperated. He led the cops to where Stephanie Jackson’s body had been dumped. After a few hours of dredging, they’d pulled her to the surface, along with several other bodies I was sure would be connected to Chentinko.
Following the shooting, I met Detective Lambert in interrogation. For some reason, they let Burns go right away. This time, he corroborated my story, so they didn’t hold me long. The cop at the scene ruled the shooting self-defense. It helped that Mr. and Mrs. Scott had appeared midway through my conversation with the detectives to confess their role in it all.
None of us mentioned the laptop.
I’d asked Jaffe directly, but he didn’t know what his uncle wanted with the laptop. That secret sank to the bottom of the Mississippi with the machine, but I didn’t think it was a coincidence that Mr. Montgomery was now keeping my mom close.
“This place looks truly amazing,” Mr. Montgomery said.
“Yes, Katherine, you’ve certainly put your talents to good use here. Maybe you should consider turning your career aspirations to the decorating field,” she said.
I gave myself points for not rolling my eyes at her. “Thank you, Mother. It’s very nice to see you again, Mr. Montgomery. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls,” I said and pointed at the crowd.
I moved through the main cube area and toward the refreshments.
A hand lightly gripped my arm. I flinched instinctively.
“There you are, Stretch.” Fletcher dropped his hand and took a pull from a soda bottle. He looked around us, taking in everything and everyone in the room. “Good turnout. I think the Cause-of-Death bingo was an especially nice touch.”
“Everyone does seem to love bingo.” I looked around too. It was a decent crowd. “Good turnout if you count the protestors, anyway. You’ve created a monster.” I smiled at him.
In exchange for downplaying any possible connection to my dad, we gave Fletcher the exclusive on Grand’s story. He ran a three-part series on her heroism in the face of danger. I was mostly spared attention, except as a way to explain the missing body from the morgue. Burns was a minor footnote, mentioned only as providing security for us. After Fletcher obtained the exclusive, the circus of reporters went away. Then when the first story ran, the groupies appeared.
Fletcher grinned and grabbed some appetizers from a passing waiter. He handed me a couple. “Where is our geriatric demon, anyway? I don’t think I’ve spotted her yet.”
“She’s with her people, holding vigil at the prison.”
“Claude still not talking?”
I shook my head. Eventually, the detectives had made it to the park and tried to make sense of the scene. They took Claude into custody. He hadn’t said anything since then, not a single word—not to me, not to the cops, and not to Grand. The last thing he’d said was a week ago when he gave the apology to Grand, right before he murdered Chentinko.
“It’s only been a week,” Fletcher said. “He’ll come around. Now that your mobster stalker is no longer in the picture, we can have that date you owe me.”
In exchange for his help getting a story about Meg’s lighting published on the society page, I’d agreed to have dinner with Fletcher. Meg was now a local celebrity, her Megathon lamps in demand at every high-end boutique, including the one with that rude man who had insulted her. Too bad his store wouldn’t be getting any.
“‘In the picture’ is such a poor choice of words for a prolific writer like you, given my ordeal,” I said.
Fletcher winced. The police had found hundreds of creepy stalker pictures of me, and Jaffe said that Chentinko had been following me for weeks before Stephanie Jackson’s murder. He also told Jaffe that I had something of his that would fix the situation if he failed to get the laptop. He said we were fated to be together and that I was his “angel of deliverance.”
Of course, I had no idea what I could have had that belonged to Chentinko, and he never told Jaffe. I had an inkling that it was related to my dad, but with the laptop turned into fish food, I might never know.
“You take your time. I’m not in a hurry. One of my mom’s rules is that good things are worth waiting for,” Fletcher said before inhaling a shrimp puff.
I didn’t want to contemplate his idea of good things. Instead, I made my excuses for moving on.
I moved through the crowd, searching. In the Hall of Famous Autopsies, I found my target. Burns stood in front of a beautifully framed portrait of Gillian Mathers. Meg and Henry had added her heroic story to the exhibit.
“They did a great job,” I said.
He didn’t turn toward me but nodded.
“Her story belongs up there. She died trying to save more girls. She did good,” I added.
“You did good,” he said.
I blushed.
“Thanks to your tenacity, the St. Louis prostitute serial killings are a solved case, and I now know why Gillian was killed. You should feel proud.”
I did feel proud. Proud that I hadn’t given up. Not on the prostitutes, not on Stephanie Jackson, and not on my dad. Proud for saving Burns. But...
“But that’s the thing,” I said. “It seems all settled, but it’s not. Not for me with some cryptic set of missile launch codes still out there. Not for you with a mysterious code word still unexplained.”
“No,” Burns said. “Not totally settled. But Stephanie Jackson’s parents can finally lay he
r to rest. You and Jaffe aren’t living in fear of being murdered by the crazy Chentinko. The county got rid of a corrupt coroner. Your grand’s a celebrity. That ain’t nothing.” He stood resolute, hands on his hips, eyes on Gillian’s picture.
“True, not nothing,” I said.
“In fact, it deserves a toast.” He turned toward me. “Let’s find something.”
These achievements did deserve to be celebrated, and Burns was probably the only other person who could fully understand that. He smiled that devilish grin of his and ran his hand lightly down my arm before grabbing my hand. “Not settled,” he repeated, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point on my wrist. He pulled me lightly though the corridor.
“Heard you’re off probation,” he said as we walked toward the break room, where the refreshment table was.
“Yup. Full reinstatement.”
“You going to stay?”
I smiled. In the week since the shooting, I hadn’t been able to make decisions about anything. “Maybe. Probably, maybe.”
“Always definitive with the decisions. That’s my girl.” As we stepped into the room, he pulled a brochure from his pocket and handed it to me. It was for the Forensic Science program at the university.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“Jaffe said you needed to study.”
He had. He told us at the police station that he didn’t feel bad about having Duff call in the false report about me taking the body for Chentinko because he didn’t think I liked my job very much. He said that if I would apply myself, however, I could be really great at my job. I apparently had a knack with puzzles, families, and dead people. That was why he was always so hard on me, always asking me those weird questions, not because of my supposed mob ties but because he thought I was wasting my potential.
It was odd to think that I might actually have found something I was good at.
“I like the work here,” I said as I surveyed the food. “Dead people always have something important to say.”
“What about your parents’ disapproval?” he asked, filling a plate.
“Children are supposed to cause their parents unwarranted stress,” I said, smiling.