“It’s complicated.” It was the truth, because there’s nothing more complicated than having to stay away from the person you love because you might cause a psychotic break.
“Your mother and I think—”
“Save it.” I stopped him before he could start. “I know what you think. I know you think I should move back here, give in to this disease, and prepare for the end.”
“That’s not what I said, Lindy.” He started up again, but I was too quick to let him continue.
“I know you think Ryder gets me into trouble, and Shane puts ideas in my head, and Ranger started it all.”
“You don’t know the first thing about—”
“No, it’s you who doesn’t know. You haven’t taken the time to learn since I moved away. Yes, that first year was hard for me. Getting used to this new normal took time, but I’m strong now. I’m good at this job. Maybe they did sway me, but I help people. And as for Ryder,” my voice tripped over the heaps of emotion building in my throat, “he’s the one who saves me. He loves me, and I love him, and yes, it’s complicated right now, but maybe one day it won’t be. I’ll expect you to treat him with respect if you want me around.”
My dad’s mouth had pulled tight somewhere in the middle of the conversation. It was his way of dissecting the words, looking for loopholes, finding some way to twist them to his advantage, all the skills he’d learned in his years of prosecuting, but it gave way and the tension fled. He looked down, and when he looked back at me again, all I saw was my father.
“You would have made a good lawyer, you know that?”
It was my turn to look down. “Yeah, but I can’t see the world in black and white. It’s all kinds of gray.”
His chuckle was tired, as if I had exhausted him in my short visit. “Then you could have been a defense attorney.”
We talked for a few more minutes before I made an excuse about needing to get back to work. As I stepped back into the hallway, I admitted that it wasn’t altogether a lie, I did have to get back to work. Dad just didn’t know work was three doors down.
Donnelly’s office was still locked. With the hall empty, I knocked twice, light enough that I wouldn’t alert the others, but loud enough he would’ve heard if inside. I glanced at my watch; a few minutes after noon. Donnelly was likely at lunch. I slipped my picks from my pocket where I’d stored them and worked fast. I felt the tumbler shift after the first try, and I ducked inside as I heard voices in the hall. My lungs burned as I held my breath waiting for them to pass. It would be just my luck if Donnelly came back the second I’d infiltrated his office. But the voices didn’t linger, and I relocked the door behind me.
His office wasn’t much bigger than my father’s, which surprised me. Dad’s office was on the corner, two windows instead of Donnelly’s one. But then again, my father had worked there longer, maybe it was out of respect that they let him have the corner office. Donnelly’s desk was cluttered with papers and that worked for me. I needed to see his notes. I needed to know how close they were to arresting Amos. The papers felt slippery beneath my fingertips, gliding easily between each other as I read and tried not to disturb their order.
A deep shade of gray caught my attention. I pulled a writing pad free of the bottom of the pile. Scrawled with notes, the paper looked like the thoughts of a madman. The district attorney’s thoughts were written willy-nilly all over the page, different sizes, different angles, all proof of his frustration. Circled in the center were the words “Con Man.”
They knew Amos wasn’t who he said he was. Little tick marks counted off below the center circle, “–no music company –not a producer –other crimes?” Obviously they hadn’t connected him to anything else, but then Amos had made sure he’d never ended up in the system before now.
The dark gray writing that had originally caught my eye was the word “keys??” He had scrawled “How did he get in? Keys? No forced entry. Let in?” Obviously the information about Amos’ omitted truth was a pivotal one. For now his story worked. If the other side knew that he had keys, and worse, that he’d lied about it, we’d be sunk.
“Who is Mack?” filled the margins in block capital letters. I knew from experience that it wasn’t an easy question to answer. I’d been trying to figure Amos out for years.
“Motive??” was written and rewritten in the bottom right corner as if he had sat and carved it into the paper for hours, pondering the question. More tick marks followed that question. “–money? –betrayal? –jealousy? –innocent? ” Apparently he was just in the dark as I was.
Overall the notepad struck me as odd. Detectives investigated like this. They ruminated over questions for hours, stared at blank walls trying to get their thoughts in order, lost sleep over the puzzle, but not prosecutors. They took the puzzle and presented it. As I let my eyes run over the whole of the notepad I caught a jumbled sentence in the bottom left margin. The lettering was tiny, indicative of shame, or embarrassment, like a secret thought that never should have escaped.
“Worthless cops.”
Voices in the hall jarred my attention. I jammed the notepad back under the other papers and smoothed them. The laughter moved closer. I heard someone say Donnelly’s name. I had moments to hide, but nowhere to go. It wasn’t like I could slip under his desk, or hide behind a plant, the room was completely exposed. The knob jiggled, he’d obviously forgotten that he’d locked it before he left. I didn’t have time to think about the danger, or how stupid my plan was, I only had time to act.
The window unlocked and slid up easily. I pulled myself through, clutched the wall, and locked my fingers around the bricks to the point of white fingertips. The Central California breeze met me, tousling my hair. The ledge, larger than I expected, spanned nearly twenty inches. Though I’m sure it wasn’t made for people, I had the room I needed. I prayed the old building would hold together for just a minute while I hid.
The angle was nearly impossible as I used my foot to push the window closed again. With an inch or two left at the bottom, I abandoned the idea and held as still as possible.
“Well, Detective,” Donnelly’s voice filtered from inside, “talk to them again. Obviously they know something.” His footsteps stopped short. He’d seen the window. “Maybe you need a new suspect. Nothing sticks to this guy.” His frustration mounted in his voice. “I know you like him for it, but—”
The window slid shut and the lock flicked into place.
My mouth went dry.
My heart dropped.
No need to panic, just stuck on a ledge three stories up.
Okay, Lindy, what now?
It was beyond a miracle that he was too distracted to look out his window. Sure, I was a good foot away, and who would assume that a person had climbed out on their ledge, but still I’d take my good fortune where I could get it.
I craned my neck forward, glancing past my shoes and the dusty brick ledge they stood on. Third floor, no way to jump, and lucky I didn’t have an irrational fear of heights. Too much longer on the ledge, and I might develop one. Granted, it wasn’t like I was calm either. My hands were clammy from the stress, and my options didn’t look good. Any second my balance, vertigo and fatigue would attack and I’d be the latest on the six o’clock news.
Slowly, I began sidestepping my way to the right. If I didn’t look down, it helped. Looking down meant spiraling vision, questioning my choices, and wondering how Amos had ever gotten me to help him in the first place. Facing out, I didn’t hear any screams of alarm while passing the other offices near Dad’s. I kept moving. My muscles trembled in my hands where I clung to the brick, and in my legs where I held my balance steady. My heart slammed in my chest, total panic pounding at the periphery of my mind. Dust grated beneath my feet, making the ledge slippery at times. If I wasn’t careful I knew I’d hyperventilate on the ledge and be in even more trouble.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the edge of the building. I’d made it. I inched my way another couple feet, the
n carefully bent my knees enough to see in the window. Dad was there, thank goodness, and alone, thank goodness.
Taking a deep breath, I tapped on the window pane. His head came up, looked at the door, and then snapped to the window. There must have been a full five seconds before he actually realized what he was looking at. He never swears, but he did then. His office chair flipped back as he jumped to his feet and hurried to my aid. Panic closed in on me as he flipped the latch and yanked up the window pane.
“Lindy, what on earth?” His grip captured my ankles, determined not to let me tumble. I fell back through the open window, nearly joyous at the feeling of solid ground beneath me.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I tucked my head to stop the spinning that always accompanied the relief from not dying. Not dying comes with more adrenaline than a person might expect. I’ve experienced it enough to know it’s a drug you never want to take.
“Lindy!” Dad’s voice turned sharp. I owed him an answer.
Tilting my face up to look at him with my best impish smile, I said, “I took a wrong turn at the end of the hall.”
♦ ♦ ♦
My stunt did nothing to alleviate his frustration with what he referred to as ‘my side of the law’ seeing everything in gray. Peeking at the competition’s notes didn’t faze me, at least not on the surface. Deep down, sure, I knew it was wrong, but some things have to be done, whether they’re wrong or not. He stopped asking questions when it started to become information he didn’t want to know. I lost all the points for the cake, but when I left I knew he wasn’t mad, at least, not too mad.
Since I was already in the city, I started searching for known hangouts for Honey B. The first was a little restaurant in the bohemian side of town. The graffiti on the walls weren’t gang signs, or rival territory warnings. They were works of art, beautiful paintings, political pieces, in memory art options, the kind of vandalism a person hopes no one will ever paint over. I get it, it’s wrong because it wasn’t your property, but staring at a spray-painted rose vine climbing the length of the restaurant called “Starved for Art,” I couldn’t help but feel as though it should be allowed, wrong or not.
I’d seen the place mentioned quickly in the police report, but no background, and I had to wonder if the cops checked it once they got their claws into Amos. The phrase from Donnelly’s note pad popped into my head, ‘Worthless cops,’ and though I doubted it, I couldn’t shake it either.
The bell over the door alerted the staff to my arrival in the cafe. Around one p.m., and the lunch rush was clearly over. Across the small lobby of tables I saw a guitarist perched on a stool on the elevated stage. Art hung from every empty space on the walls. A painting of a sad clown with a melting face caught my eye. The black tag next to it held the artist’s name and the price, $50. Clowns have always creeped me out, and this one was no different. I doubted there was a market for fifty-dollar acid rain clowns, but I wished Ryder were next to me for the hundredth time that day. He’d know. He’d appreciate a place like this, a sanctuary for artists without a name to try and find their niche.
Have a little culture, Huckleberry. I could nearly hear him in my thoughts. Just because you don’t like it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t any good. Keep an open mind.
“Table for one?” A voice jarred me from my daydreams.
“Yes,” fell out of my mouth before I could even remember why I’d come. The need to feel Ryder next to me overwhelmed me, like an addict looking for a fix.
I followed behind her because that’s what social protocol asked me to do. Same reason I took the menu and stared at it even after she left. The guitarist began. I had to admit she was good.
I tried to shake Ryder from my thoughts, but it was too late, he’d gotten a foothold and all I could think about was how much he would love the cafe. I was possibly the least creative person alive, and yet being with him, I wanted it. I wanted to at least understand what he saw when he looked at a painting covered in shapes, or a drawing of a dog wearing a top hat. I wanted to hear him explain why it was art and what made it special. I wanted normal, a date, a moment where my heart could race because he was near, not because our lives were in danger. I’d brought this on us. I’d made us into whatever quasi-couple we’d become. The kind who were madly in love, except they’d never been on a date, and one of them couldn’t remember—
“What can I get you?”
The waiter’s voice brought me from my thoughts. I had nothing to give him. At least not an order.
“Actually, I’m a PI. I’m looking for information. Maybe you can help me?”
He shrugged as if he might consider it, though I had a feeling ordering food would help. The guy worked on tips, and information might cost me something.
“Bring me a club sandwich.” I handed the menu back. “It looks pretty slow, maybe you could come back for a chat?”
Flashing some cash might have gotten me more than a grunt before he disappeared into the back, but by the same token I’d bent enough rules for one day.
The only other patrons in the restaurant were a couple to my right. Just as I noticed them, they packed up their stuff and headed out. Lunch was over and it was just me and the guitarist.
No, not awkward.
Unless throwing a pizza party and only one person shows up is awkward.
Oh, wait. It is.
You can only ask if you can get them a drink so many times. Just like you can only avoid the sultry gaze of a singer so many times before it’s just cat and mouse and you’re pretending she’s not there.
That’s worse.
“I’ve got ten minutes.” The waiter pulled out the chair across from me. “What do you want to know?”
Direct. I could work with direct.
“Have you seen this girl?” I pulled my phone from my pocket and flashed the picture of Honey B. “I mean, did you ever see her play here?”
His nod was slight, but it was something. “Yeah, she’s played here, not very regular. I get the feeling she likes the club scene more. We tend to get an acoustic crowd playing here, soft rock for hippy soccer moms and all that. She’s more R&B soulful. She gets a better reaction at night.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? She getting sued or something? Big record always seems to be coming after someone for their covers or whatever. Art isn’t free anymore.”
I wanted to see his reaction, see what kind of person Honey B came off as, so I didn’t sugarcoat the truth.
“She’s dead. Murdered about a week ago.”
People can fake shock, but only to a point. Open mouth, elevated eyebrows, sure, but the color draining, the look of about to vomit on his own shoes, that can’t be faked.
“Murdered?” The brown-haired waiter stared into my water cup as though he was considering splashing it on his face. “What do you mean, murdered?”
“She was strangled with her own microphone wire.”
His face took on a slightly olive green shade. I debated my choice to give it to him straight. I didn’t do well around vomit.
“Who would do that?” his whisper squeezed from his throat.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I know cops talked with your manager and there wasn’t much to say, but you and the other staff here, you’re closer to the action. You see the stuff that doesn’t end up on camera or reports. I’m just trying to find out anything that might help me find her killer.”
His nod bobbed like a petal in troubled waters, as if he were trying to convince himself that he could help. The chair he sat on jarred against the porcelain floor as he shifted to face the stage.
“Morgan, come here.”
The guitarist stopped mid-strum. The chords sat in the air, unfished and annoyed.
“Asher,” she said into the microphone, “I’m working here.”
“She’s the only one in here!”
“And she’s diggin’ me.” Morgan hissed the words through her teeth, but not before she sent a wink my way.
“Trust me, this is more im
portant.” Asher lowered his voice as if the words alone had bad luck. “Honey B is dead.”
Her guitar slipped from her grasp and clunked against her foot. “So when she was—”
“Yeah.” Asher clearly understood what she hadn’t said. “Get down here.”
I waited as patiently as I could, but by the time Morgan pulled out a chair at the table, I was nearly salivating. Forget food. I needed answers.
“Look, I was working last Monday night. I don’t usually do nights because it’s not my crowd, but I have this new set I’ve been playing with. It’s darker, more sensual, more,” Morgan smiled, but her lips stayed tight while her eyebrow flinched, “flirtatious. I think you’d like it.”
I ignored everything she’d insinuated and pushed for more information. “Was Honey B working?”
“Yeah,” Morgan confirmed, “only she didn’t go by that name here. She was just Hallie. This is more of a clean-cut crowd, less of the fluff and fancy and more about the actual music and talent.” Asher nudged her with his elbow, likely to keep her on track. “Right, well, she was on stage after me. There’s a little place in the back where we go to get our heads together before we come up. It’s not much, a broom closet, but we write each other notes in chalk. Charlie, our manager, never seems to mind. It’s not like we haven’t decorated every square inch of this place anyway.”
“Morgan!” Asher scolded her for her tangent again.
“Okay, yeah, so I was coming offstage, and I saw her back there, standing in the closet, staring at the wall and just crying. I don’t really know her, or knew her, or, geez, I don’t know, so I didn’t say much, just asked if she was all right.”
Asher couldn’t handle her any longer and took over. “She looked Morgan straight in the eyes and said, ‘I’m dead.’”
Chills ran up my arms like ants fleeing a picnic in a rainstorm.
“Did you ask her why?”
“No.” Morgan fidgeted with a napkin. “I figured she was late on rent, or was going to lose her cell. Most of us can’t make bills month to month. Sometimes I throw them in a hat and pull them out at random for what I’m going to pay. I gave up on crying a long time ago, but she was new to the city, new to this whole life, so I figured she would learn like the rest of us that everything isn’t life and death.”
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