A Dread So Deep

by Anita Rodgers

  The hum of a car engine outside turned his thoughts to Melanie. What was her problem? Trying to run him off the road like that? And she was going to pay for the repairs too. Lucky for him he’d found a guy to fix it for cash, no records. The last thing he needed was his insurance rates getting hiked again.

  The women in his life were turning him gray before his time. Melanie was such a damned hothead. It’s what made her so good in bed, though. He chuckled. My mistress is jealous of my other mistress. But not my wife. That was rich. He had enough sex drive to go around and none of them needed to get pissy about it. And he always kept his little blue pills as a backup. He never failed to perform. “I’m a damn love machine.” He laughed again and knocked the glass off the edge of the tub.

  The brown liquid soaked into the white bath mat. Christine wouldn’t like it. She’d have a real fit. So what? She could clean up his mess. She was his mess. His hot stupid mess. He needed to clean her up. Chauncey wasn’t the only operative in town. He had connections. He could find somebody to clean up his mess for good if he needed to.

  The car in the street below revved its engine and he lifted himself to get a peek out the window. But then it went quiet. Still. Peace and quiet. That’s what he needed. Time to think about what Chauncey gave him. It’s a good thing she hadn’t been there. He’d have wrung her neck himself. He hadn’t meant to ask Chauncey. Though if he’d said yes, he might’ve gone for it. He rested his head against the edge of the tub and let it play out in his mind. The perfect murder, with Christine in a starring role. What would that look like? A hit and run? Home invasion? Mugging gone wrong? So many possibilities. He sighed. She was getting to be too damn much work. Life would be simpler without her.

  He wanted more bourbon and frowned at the glass on the bath mat. If he shifted he could reach it. But the water held him in its sizzling embrace. A boiling blanket that wound him down. And the bottle was in the other room anyway. When he got out of the tub, he’d have a nightcap.

  A thud downstairs jarred him. He rolled his head toward the door. “Is that you?” No answer. He listened for her footsteps. Silence. “Damn it, Christine. Answer me. Where are you?”

  He struggled to get out of the tub but his body felt so heavy he could barely move. Gripping the sides of the tub he tried again but slid under the water. Instinct drove him up, choking and cursing. It was her fault. She should‘ve been there to help him. He tried again and slid again. As if the water was pulling him down to comfort him. To wrap him in warmth and safety. And each time he slid, it was harder to resist. And he was so tired. So very tired.

  MICHAEL WATCHED THE house from his car. He had to get hold of himself or get out of there. Maybe they should try another time. Did it have to be that night? Would they get another chance?

  He breathed in slowly through his nose and then out slowly through his mouth. Willing his heart to calm. He peered through the windshield—everything he hated was inside that house. Everything that kept him from what he wanted. Would the world really care if it lost one more asshole? After what he’d heard between Phillip and Chauncey, he could make a case for self-defense. It was either him or them.

  No matter what he did, somebody was going to die. If he backed out, the chances were good that it would be him. Phillip probably wouldn’t be able to kill Christine, his captured bird. His trophy. “Man up, dude. Just do it. Do it. Got to do it. Got do it, do it, do it.”

  A car engine revved and Michael looked up as a red sports car buzzed by him in a blur. He blew out a breath. That was it. It was time. Do it. Fuck it. Kill or be killed.

  Reconciled to his mission, Michael returned to the house. He took the stairs two at a time—adrenaline pumping his heart at a steady thump. At the bedroom door, he cocked an ear. All quiet. Good. Phillip was passed out. Point and shoot was all he had to do. He pulled the gun from his waistband, eased open the door, and stepped into the no-turning-back zone.

  The room rested in shadow with only a small lamp burning at the bedside table. The bed was still made and Phillip's unpacked bag sat on the floor. Where are you?

  From the master bath, a faucet dripped and that singular sound washed waves of anticipation over him. The plush carpet swallowed his footsteps as he stepped to the bathroom door. All quiet. Too quiet. No splashing. No movement. Just the drip, drip, drip of the faucet. His mouth flooded with saliva and he swallowed it as if a spoonful of castor oil. Time to man up.

  He nudged the door with his foot—gun up and ready. No one there. The overturned glass on the floor sparkled in the soft light, the bourbon a brown stain on the mat. Amber rivulets ran across the white tile as though trying to escape. Steam rose from the tub, beckoning. And that drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. His halting steps squeaked on the tile—urging him to turn back. He lowered the gun in his trembling hand.

  Against every instinct he had, he willed his eyes to peer into the tub. The vacant stare of the master of the house greeted him. A deep guttural cry that came from a dark corner of his soul rose out of him. Fist jammed in his mouth, he stumbled backward to the door—unable to look away from the tub. Terrified that Phillip would rise from the water and pull him under into Hell.

  Chapter 17

  DETECTIVE EMILY DAVIS entered the squad room, carrying a cup of coffee and a lunch bag. She was early for her shift by nearly an hour. While the rest of her colleagues were still home reading the paper or idling at the Starbucks drive-through, she was getting a jump on the day. Not a jump exactly—she had no pressing cases. The only thing on her calendar was a robbery-homicide that had dead-ended and notes to review for a court appearance later that day. If they didn’t make a deal in the meantime. Which they probably would. Because she’d worn her good gray suit that she’d bought from the outlet mall. Designer label and all. She prayed she didn’t get called out on a case with a bloody crime scene or the need to dumpster dive for evidence.

  She settled into her chair, whipped out a copy of the Sunday Times crossword puzzle, and grabbed a pen from the cup on her desk.

  Moments later, her partner, Pete Daniels, sauntered in with a supersized coffee in one hand and a box of Krispy Kremes in the other. How such a big galoot could move so gracefully baffled her. A regular Gene Kelly with size 14 feet. He lowered his bearish body into his chair and smirked. “Hey lady, whatcha got there? A vocabularic emergency?”

  Davis chewed on her pen as she studied the clues. “Use your inside voice, Daniels.” She flicked him a look. “And since when do you use words like vocabularic? Somebody give you a roll of that word-a-day toilet paper again?”

  Daniels ducked and let the insult fly over his head. “You’re in a fine mood this morning.” He rifled his drawers for sugar packets. “My inside voice? What is this Sesame Street?” Davis shot him her classic eye roll. Daniels flipped the lid on the doughnut box and offered it to her. “Breakfast? It’s the most important meal of the day.”

  Davis pushed the box away. “No thanks, that stuff will kill you.”

  Daniels laughed. “This coming from a woman who eats pens for breakfast?” He tossed her a balled up napkin. “Though blue really is your color.”

  Davis dabbed at her mouth. “Damn it.” She checked her blouse. “Did I get any on me?” She stuck out her chest at Daniels. “Seriously, did I? This is my court suit.”

  Daniels squinted as he bit into a glazed. “Nah.” He wiggled his doughnut at her, dropping little sugar glaze flakes on her desk. “You really should switch to doughnuts.”

  She rolled back her chair to save her suit. “What did I just say, man? Don’t mess with the suit.” Daniels just laughed and grabbed another doughnut. She squinted at him. “Oh, this is funny to you?”

  Daniels bobbed his big head. “Yeah, it really is.”

  Before she could lob a clever retort, the phone rang. “Homicide, Davis. Uh-huh Yeah, on our way.” She stood and buttoned her jacket, cranking a hand at Daniels. “Time to surrender the doughnut box to the break room. Let the other kids have some.”

&nbs
p; Daniels stuffed the rest of his doughnut into his mouth. “Shit. Somebody dead already?”

  Davis rolled her eyes again. “That’s why they call it Homicide, partner. And wash your hands before we leave.”

  WHEN THEY ROLLED UP to the pretty Victorian, crime scene personnel were already there and a uniform was stationed at the front. Davis left Daniels to get the details from the first officer and went inside. She was directed to the second floor where the deceased, Phillip Logan, had apparently drowned in his bathtub.

  The body was still in the tub, but his left arm stuck out at an odd angle. A few small puddles of water pooled on the floor and what appeared to be small brownish footsteps dotted the floor. Davis frowned at the crime scene tech. “You guys moved the body?”

  The tech rolled her tongue against her cheek. “Nah, it was the deceased’s mother.” She shrugged and her jumper crinkled. “She took a shot at CPR when she found him.”

  Davis grimaced. “Great.”

  The tech chuckled. “At least she didn’t pull him out of the tub. But that’s exactly how we found him when we got here.”

  Aside from the disturbance presumed to have been created by Logan’s mother, there were no outward signs of a struggle. Except for a rocks glass on the floor next to the tub, and what appeared to be a liquor stain on the white bath mat. And probably the source of the little brown footprints around the tub.

  No sign of blood, injuries, or other disturbance that she could see from the doorway. She scanned the room but saw no signs of a bottle. “You find the bottle of booze that goes with that glass?”

  The tech bagged the glass then squeezed past her in the door. “Yeah, it’s bagged.” She raised her hand at Davis. “And no, we didn’t find anything to indicate a second party was involved, Detective.”

  She couldn’t argue the point—on the face of it, Phillip Logan appeared to have accidentally drowned. If he’d been drinking, which the glass and bottle seemed to indicate, he could’ve passed out and slid underwater. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d known a person to die that way. But looks were deceiving, so she stood in the doorway and let her eyes wander—looking for anything that was out of place. “You done, can I get in there?”

  The tech nodded. “More or less.”

  Davis slipped on a pair of booties and gloves and stepped inside the bathroom.

  Except for the dead body in the tub, it was a pretty room. White on white. One of those designer things, she guessed—varying shades of white used to impart a sense of quiet elegance. Didn’t float her boat. She liked a little color. Just white on white on white made her eyes hurt. But the lack of color did make a yellow bottle in the wastebasket pop up in her line of sight. She turned the bottle to read the label—prescription for Seconal. She pointed it out to the tech and asked her to bag it. Then, as an afterthought, asked the tech to check the medicine cabinet and bag any prescription drugs found.

  She went to the tub and crouched to get a look at her victim. In life, he’d clearly been a good looking guy. Except for the fact that he was dead, he looked fit and in good shape. Solid and muscled. And he didn’t have a mark on him. “What happened to you, Mr. Logan?”

  Shedding her booties and gloves, she returned the room to the crime scene tech and went downstairs. Daniels met her at the foot of the stairs. “So, how’s it looking up there?”

  She shrugged. “See for yourself and we’ll compare notes after.”

  Daniels nodded then lumbered up the stairs.

  Another uniform directed her to the den where witnesses waited for her. There, she encountered Cornelia Logan, the deceased’s mother, and Melanie Campbell, the deceased’s sister-in-law. The mother was distraught—and still a bit damp from trying to fish her son out of the tub—and insistent that her son was murdered. She had discovered the body when she came calling early that morning. Alligator tears slid down her cheeks as she described trying to pull her son out of the tub, to ‘save’ him. When she found she was helpless to rescue him herself, she’d dialed 911.

  Conversely, the sister-in-law was calm and cheerfully offered to call the deceased’s wife, who was in Manhattan Beach visiting her great aunt. Davis took her up on her offer and listened to Campbell’s side of the conversation. “No, Auntie, I haven't seen her. That’s why I’m calling you. Did she have her cell phone? Phone, the portable phone? I know you have a phone. Okay, I will. Love you, too. Bye-bye. The sister-in-law ended the call and fluttered her wrist. “Well, that was fun.”

  “Problem, Ms. Campbell?”

  Melanie rolled her eyes. “Auntie's old. My sister left this morning but Auntie doesn’t remember the time. Or if Chris had her phone with her.”

  Tired of quietly stewing in the easy chair, the mother piped up again. “Woman's a lunatic. She wouldn't know if Christine was in the next room.”

  Melanie’s mask of composure slipped a little. “You're wearing out your welcome, Cornelia.”

  Davis noted the tense family dynamics. “Have you tried to reach your sister on her cell phone?”

  Melanie draped herself in the chair opposite Cornelia. “Of course.” She waggled her hand. “My sister lives in her own world. If she doesn't feel like talking she won’t answer.” She made a face. “Especially if it’s me.”

  Cornelia rotated a finger at her temple. “Whole family of lunatics, if you ask me.”

  Melanie snarled at the old woman. “Nobody's asking you.”

  The old woman’s lip trembled as though a new round of tears was on the way. Davis worried that if she kept the two women in the same room, she’d be writing up an assault. She offered Cornelia a tissue. “Mrs. Logan, perhaps it’d be better if you went home. Got some rest.” She smiled and fanned an arm behind her. “Seeing all this after the shock of finding your son won’t do you any good.” Cornelia’s face twisted in anguish and Davis felt for the old gal. “You’ve done what you can for Phillip and now it’s up to us. I promise we’ll take good care of him. We'll call you if we have more questions. Or news.”

  Cornelia wagged her head sharply and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't want to go home. My place is here, with my boy.” She glared at Melanie. “There should be at least one person here who loved him.”

  Davis sensed a motive trying to reveal itself. The Logan family was not a happy one—just how unhappy they were was what she needed to know. Davis encouraged Cornelia to her feet. “Anyone we can call? A friend? A neighbor? Somebody who can stay with you?”

  Cornelia waved her sodden tissue in the air. “I’m not leaving until I talk to Christine. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me she had nothing to do with this.” She lobbed a poison look at Melanie. “I’ll know if she’s lying.”

  Melanie slapped the arms of her chair. “That's ridiculous. Christine?” She waved dismissively at the old woman. “Go home, Cornelia. Nobody wants you here. Least of all, Christine.”

  Davis needed to separate the two women before a catfight broke out. “Please, Ms. Campbell.”

  Cornelia planted her hands on her hips and scowled at Melanie. “You aren't getting rid of me.”

  Melanie ignored the old woman and turned to Davis. “Detective, do you really think Phillip killed himself?”

  The old woman lunged for Melanie. “My son did not kill himself.”

  Davis swiveled quickly and caught Cornelia by the arm. “All right, all right. Mrs. Logan, please let’s not take out our sorrow on others.” Cornelia was surprisingly strong and Davis’ to keep hold of her. She glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of her partner. “Daniels? Detective Daniels, I need your assistance.”

  Daniels swept into the room as if a Cary Grant to her Katherine Hepburn. “Yes, Detective Davis?”

  “Mrs. Logan needs an escort home. Could you help her out with that?”

  Daniels smiled at Cornelia, who immediately stopped fighting Davis and softened to his warmth. He offered her his arm. “May I have this dance, ma'am?”

  Davis let go of Cornelia and handed her off
to Daniels. The old gal batted her eyelashes at Daniels. “I really prefer to stay. Can't you convince your partner?”

  Daniels winked at her. “No ma'am, she's stubborn as they come. Once her mind is made up, there's no changing it. But I promise the minute we know anything, you'll know it. Okay?”

  Cornelia sighed and accepted Daniels’ arm. “You’re a trustworthy man, aren’t you, Detective? You wouldn’t lie to an old woman just to get rid of her?”

  Daniels chuckled softly. “What old woman would that be, ma’am?”

  Davis cringed at Daniels’ methods but they worked every time. The woman would probably bake him a cake and pack it in a box to carry it home with him.

  Davis closed the door behind them then turned to the sister-in-law. “Maybe you could put your differences aside. She just lost her son.”

  Melanie’s amethyst eyes gleamed with mischief. “Don't you worry about Cornelia, Detective. She puts on a good show but she doesn't give a damn about anybody but herself.” Her fine nostrils flared. “What she just lost was her monthly allowance check. And she’s not sure she'll get another.”

  It was an interesting statement, Davis thought, coming from the deceased’s sister-in-law. Wasn’t that the kind of thing a wife said? Davis nodded. “Even if that’s true, maybe you could cut her a break anyway?” Melanie’s sullen expression was her answer. Davis cleared her throat. “How long a drive is it from your aunt's?”

  Melanie kicked off her stilettos and grabbed an Architectural Digest from the coffee table. “With Chris, you never know.” She flipped through the magazine to show Davis she wasn’t important. “If she drives straight home, an hour or so. But she usually doesn’t come straight home.” She rotated a finger at her temple. “Like I said, world of her own.” She tossed the magazine on the coffee table. “So, suicide is actually on the table?” Davis cocked her head at the woman. “Oh, I heard someone”—she wiggled her fingers at the door—“out there, talking about it.”