A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  CHAPTER 6

  The details of Alexandra Weston’s death were scant at best. The news channels had little to go on, and as a result, they kept broadcasting the same alleged bits of information they’d received in a repetitive loop. The police hadn’t made a public statement. I wanted to know why and decided to take my query straight to the superintendent of police.

  I hadn’t made it very far inside the department walls before Blunt stopped me.

  Hands on hips, she said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to speak to the superintendent.”

  “About what?”

  “Alexandra Weston.”

  “Why? Is there something you didn’t mention before?”

  “No.”

  She laughed. “Well then, whatever it is, you can talk to me. He’s busy.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll wait.”

  Jaw clenched, she said, “Look, I get it. Your little real-life murder show on TV makes you feel entitled, like you know something we don’t. Here’s the thing: you’re a writer reading a cue card. What we do here is real police work. You wouldn’t know anything about it.”

  Finch, who stood beside me, stared at Officer Blunt and said nothing. He didn’t need to. He knew what was coming.

  “I know you’ve never seen the show,” I said. “And I doubt you’ve read any of my books, so I’ll let your ignorance about who I am and what I do slide. But before you label me, take a look at my background. I have plenty of experience.”

  I awaited a heated response as I watched her nostrils flare next to her raised finger. It was derailed when a plump, middle-aged man of average height appeared from a small office to my right, his bushy, uncombed head of hair taking center stage.

  “You’re Joss Jax, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I turned, nodded.

  “Heard you were in town.”

  Blunt rolled her eyes. “Of course you heard, Herb. I told you.”

  He behaved like she wasn’t there, his eyes remaining on me. “I’m Detective Murphy. The superintendent put me in charge of Alexandra Weston’s case. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

  Gladly.

  Finch and I stepped inside, and Murphy shut the door, leaving Blunt ogling me through the small office window. It wasn’t hard to imagine what she was thinking.

  Murphy sat down and gestured for Finch and me to do the same.

  “Don’t mind Blunt,” he said. “She’s one hell of an officer, but she’s also, you know ... well, forgive me for saying, but she’s ... uhh ...”

  “An unhappy woman?” I suggested.

  He smirked. “I was going to go with ‘a real bitch,’ but hey, tact isn’t my strong suit.”

  It wasn’t mine either, but today I was feeling generous.

  “You haven’t released much information to the press about what happened to Alexandra Weston.”

  “Too early in the process. You know how it goes. We’ll leak a thing or two here and there, shake a few trees, see what tumbles out.” He leaned over his desk, entwining his short, chubby fingers together on top of it. “How much do you already know?”

  “Not a lot. I heard she was found dead inside the bookstore bathroom a couple hours after it closed. Why did it take so long for someone to find her? Didn’t anyone realize she’d never left the shop in the first place?”

  “Everyone thought she slipped out, went home. From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t much of a people person unless she wanted to be.”

  “There was a Chanel handbag sitting on the floor next to her chair when I was there,” I said. “You’re saying no one saw it or thought it was odd when she left it there?”

  “She took it with her into the bathroom. It was recovered on the floor inside the stall.”

  “What about the pens she was handing out? There was a basket sitting on the desk during the signing. There was a bin of books too. And a mug of something—a silver container she was drinking from.”

  He shrugged. I continued.

  “What about the surveillance tape? Didn’t the bookstore have one?”

  “Yes and no. They have one. It just wasn’t on at the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “One of the plugs was disconnected. Can’t say yet whether it was on purpose or whether the cord just detached somehow. It’s an older system, so either theory is plausible. We dusted for prints. Don’t have those results yet.”

  “How long had the camera been broken?” I asked.

  “The last recording they have is from two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks, and no one noticed or cared?”

  “Employees said after they hired the security guard, they hardly had any theft. Checking to see if it was working was no longer a priority.”

  It was hard for me to believe Louis was considered that big of a deterrent. He had the size, but lacked in mental capacity.

  “The security guard was a new hire then?”

  “He’d only been there three weeks. We think the killer was hiding somewhere in the store during the book signing, possibly even before, waiting for an opportunity to make his move.”

  “Even if that’s true, how did he escape?” I asked. “The front door was locked from the inside with a key that one of the employees carried around in his pocket. I saw him lock it about ten minutes before the store closed. He’d unlocked the door to let the last few customers out, and then locked the door back up.”

  “We think the killer exited through the side door.”

  “What side door?”

  “The one they use for shipments in the warehouse out back. It locks from the outside only. From the inside, anyone can push the metal bar and get out.” Detective Murphy pulled a manila file from the top drawer of his desk. He flipped it open, turning the folder in my direction so I had a clear view of the photograph resting on top. An ordinary kitchen knife with a tan, wooden handle.

  “We found this knife stashed inside a discarded fast-food sack in a dumpster on the opposite end of the parking lot.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get any prints off it.”

  “Not a one. And the weirdest part is there was a very small cut on Alexandra Weston’s neck, but she didn’t die from a knife injury. There were no other marks on her.”

  “If this wasn’t the cause of death, what was?”

  He craned his neck, looking left and right, before saying, “Apparently Alexandra Weston wasn’t feeling well. In the stall we believe she used prior to her death, it looks like she vomited. Did she seem unwell to you?”

  “She never said anything to me about her stomach being upset, but she seemed a little off to me. She was shaking. I asked her about it, and she blamed it on the coffee.”

  When I said the word coffee, he blinked.

  “Was she poisoned?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. We can’t be sure of anything yet.”

  “Your pathologist is running a tox screen, I imagine?”

  He nodded.

  “Make sure you test the silver mug that was sitting on the table during the signing.”

  He looked at me like he wondered if I’d forgotten whom I was talking to.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I know you know how to do your job. How long will it be before you know something?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. Celia Burke, the forensic pathologist at the coroner’s office, is running tests now. She’s a little backed up at the moment though.”

  “Why?”

  “She handles at least twenty autopsies a month.”

  Twenty autopsies? It had to be some kind of record. “Time to hire a second pathologist, don’t you think?”

  He ran a hand down his face. “Believe me. You have no idea. We’re trying.”

  I stood, walked to the door. Finch followed.

  “Have you brought in any possible suspects yet?”

  “We’ve talked to all the employees. They’re all small, scrawny things. None of them weigh more than a buck and a half. And they’re ... well, timid.
George McFly types, pre-time travel, that is.”

  “Anything else I can talk you into telling me before I go?”

  He leaned back, rubbed his chin. “There is one thing. The store’s bodyguard we were just talking about. Louis. He’s the only one who didn’t show up for work today, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Louis Massie lived in the lower 9th ward with his mother, a woman I was told everyone called Miss Sabine. Although it had been almost a decade since Katrina, many neighborhoods, including the one Louis lived in, still struggled to recover from the devastating aftermath of the hurricane. Vacant pockets of flattened land where homes used to be breathed a haunting reminder of the destruction that had poisoned the area. Some people had left their homes entirely, vowing to never look back, never return again. Others remained, strong and resilient. Raising a torch of unfettered bravery, they began anew. Miss Sabine was among them. On a quiet street where only a handful of homes remained, her modest, traditional-style dwelling with beige siding and white shutters looked newly remodeled, transformed from its former, battered self into a thing of beauty.

  I parked at the curb, walked up a series of brick steps leading to the house, and knocked on the door. I stood for almost a full minute and waited. No one came. I spotted a neighbor across the street on her porch. She was rocking back and forth on a weathered, yellow rocking chair. A blanket was wrapped around her legs. When she saw me, she stood, draped the blanket around her body, and walked toward me, blanket ruffling in the soft wind. She looked to be in her upper eighties, I guessed, and had short, black hair and glasses, which were too big for her face.

  “’Scuse me,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just looking for the people who live here.”

  “No one’s home just now.”

  “Do you know when they’ll be back?” I asked.

  “Day or two, I guess. Why? What do you want with Miss Sabine?”

  “I’m not here for Sabine. I’m here for Louis.”

  “You’re the second person to come here lookin’ for him today. First was the police.”

  “Did they talk to you?”

  “Tried. I didn’t care to answer the door.”

  Her hands moved to her hips, and she squinted, looking me over like she struggled to find even the smallest connection between Louis and me. “Louis don’t live here no more, you see. Sabine kicked that boy’s ass outta here. She don’t want him back neither. Not until he cleans up his attitude and cleans up his life. He does nothin’ but cause problems for everybody.”

  “When did she kick him out?”

  “Been about a week ago now.”

  “Any idea where I can find him?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her, leaned back like there was an imaginary wall behind her to hold her up, and said, “Maybe. Depends on who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “My name is Joss. I was in the bookstore where Louis worked the night Alexandra Weston died.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexandra Weston, the true-crime writer.”

  She shrugged. “Never heard of her before.”

  “She was murdered the night before last, at the same place Louis worked.”

  The revelation failed to elicit a response.

  “What does Louis have to do with it?”

  “Maybe nothing. I won’t know until I talk to him. He didn’t show up for work today.”

  She didn’t seem surprised.

  “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I work in California,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask you where you work. I asked where you’re from.”

  “Heber.”

  “Where?”

  “Heber City. It’s in Utah.”

  “Huh. Never heard of it. You a special kind of cop or somethin’, sent here to investigate?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you poking your nose into business that ain’t yours?”

  “Alexandra Weston was a friend. We work in the same profession. We’re both authors. I’d like to know why someone wanted to kill her.”

  The term friend was a bit loose, but it suited its purpose.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “I was hoping Louis saw something the night she died that could explain what happened.”

  She squinted one eye, looked at me like she was trying to decide whether what I’d just said was genuine. “Try Eddie Trumaine. He usually hangs out with him after work. Ask me, I bet that’s where he’s been stayin’ too.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The driveway in front of Eddie Trumaine’s dive of a home, if one considered a worn-down shack a home, looked like a used-car lot for misfit automobiles. Six vehicles in various phases of disrepair and decay were stacked three deep in two rows on the oil-stained asphalt driveway. Two cars were missing tires, another two had dents in various shapes and sizes, one had been spray-painted a flat, gray color, and the last was missing one of its back windows. A replacement window had been fashioned out of thick painter’s plastic and black, zebra-patterned duct tape.

  Not exactly what I called sweet rides.

  Finch sized up the patchy, dry grass on the front lawn, the bullet-shaped holes in the white stucco on the front of the home’s exterior, and the treasure trove of rundown vehicles, and said, “I’m coming with you.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but true to form, he was halfway to the front door before I’d even switched off the ignition. I got out, placing a hand on the hood of the gray car as I passed it. Still warm.

  I knocked and heard what sounded like glass shattering on a tile floor, followed by the sound of footsteps moving rapidly in the opposite direction. Finch leapt off the porch, disappearing around the corner. I wiped the dusty windowpane with a hand, surveyed the inside of the house. Louis was on the ground, face up, not moving. I turned the handle on the door and was met with an overwhelming, foul smell of decay. I pulled the sleeve of my sweater over my hand, cupped the same hand over my nose. I gazed down at Louis. He was still dressed in his security uniform and had more than one bullet to the chest.

  I didn’t need to check for a pulse.

  He’d been there for some time.

  He wouldn’t have one.

  Finch flung the front door open, dragging a twenty-something-year-old kid behind him. The kid had a big, round, reddish circle around his left eye. It grew puffier by the second.

  I looked at Finch. “Did you punch him?”

  “It’s his own fault. He wouldn’t listen to me when I asked him to stop running. Now I’m confident he will.”

  The kid squeaked a pathetic yelp, struggling to break free. With every yowl, Finch constricted the arm he had around the kid’s neck even tighter.

  “Unless you wanna get choked out, stop fighting me,” Finch warned. “This is your one and only warning.”

  Too paranoid to listen, the kid remained focused on his primal need for flight.

  “Suit yourself,” Finch said. “Up to you.”

  Finch increased the squeeze, and the kid’s eyes started bulging.

  I approached the kid. “Are you Eddie?”

  “Yeah,” he squealed. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “If you calm down and stop trying to run, Finch here will let you go. All we want to know is what happened to Louis, okay? Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded. I exchanged glances with Finch. He didn’t budge.

  “At least let him talk,” I said. “You’re choking him.”

  Finch relaxed his grip.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” Eddie said. “What happened to Louis ... it wasn’t me. I had nothin’ to do with it, okay?”

  “Then why is Louis dead in your house?” I pointed across the room. “And why’s there a gun case with no guns in it? And why did you run?”

  Eddie looked at the open door on the gun case. “I don’t
know.”

  The odor of rotting flesh saturated the room, filling my lungs with a nauseating feeling that almost had me expelling everything I’d eaten. “I need to get out of here. Let’s talk outside.”

  “Hold up, Joss,” Finch said. “Aren’t you going to call the police first?”

  I shrugged. “What for?”

  “What do you mean ‘what for’? So they can deal with this dead body and figure out what the hell happened to this guy.”

  “Time is no longer of the essence for Louis,” I said. “He’s already dead.”

  “Yes, but the sooner they examine the body, the better, right?”

  “If he’d just expired, yes. My guess? He’s been dead almost twenty-four hours.” At the risk of upchucking all over the body, I bent down, pointed at it. “The greenish-blue color on his face and neck tells me he’s been dead for at least that long.” I grabbed a fork sitting beside a half-eaten chicken pot pie on the coffee table, lifted Louis’s shirt a couple inches, peeked beneath it. “Yeah, the discoloration is spreading. He’s been here for a while. You better start talking, Eddie.”

  The three of us headed outside.

  On the back deck, a weather-worn chair was positioned beside a brand-new barbecue grill. Finch shoved Eddie into the chair. “Sit down. And don’t get up.”

  Tiny beads of sweat dotted Eddie’s forehead. “Look, I don’t know who you two are. But I told you, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this mess!”

  “What happened to Louis?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, lady.”

  “Oh ... kay. Tell me what you do know.”

  He stood there looking terrified. Whomever he was afraid of, it was clear we were less of a risk to him than the other person was.

  “Look, there’s no way out of this.” I said. “If the cops haul you in, it’s only going to get worse for you. Protecting the person you fear won’t save you when word gets around you were interrogated by police. Even if you lie, say you didn’t say anything, no one will believe you.”

  He raised his chin, said, “You got it all wrong. I’m not afraid of anyone. I can take care of myself.”

  I resisted the urge to burst out laughing. “Why did you run when we got here?”