Right?
CHAPTER 20
He’s ready to kill the bitch. The excitement of it makes him giddy, light-headed. As soon as she opens that door, shows off that pretty little Dolce & Gabbana dress, he’s going to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until his thumbs meet his index fingers.
He knocks on her dressing room door. “You okay in there, honey?”
“Just a second. This isn’t the right kind of bra, I have to take it off. You really like this dress?”
“I have to see you in it.”
“I didn’t know you cared about fashion, Barry.”
Fuller grins, thinking about the corpse in the back of his SUV.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, dear.”
Fuller wipes some sweat from his forehead, hands shaking. The store’s swamped with customers, and there’s no one chaperoning the dressing room. He’ll be able to kill his wife in less than thirty seconds, and then slip out before anyone knows what is happening. Remember to take her ring and tennis bracelet, he tells himself. Might not hurt to stop at the jewelry department on his way out and max his credit card on diamonds. He won’t get even half their value at the pawn shop, but he doesn’t plan on sticking around to pay the bill.
“You ready, honey?” Holly’s voice is like a dinner bell.
“I’m ready.”
“The shoes don’t match.”
“I don’t care. Let me in so I can look at you.”
The door opens. Fuller goes in.
Holly smiles at him, the same fake smile she gives photographers.
“What do you think?”
Fuller smiles back, full wattage, his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck stretched taut.
“I’ll show you what I think.”
He reaches for her neck.
CHAPTER 21
I learned to trust my instincts years ago, as a rookie. If a situation didn’t feel right, it usually wasn’t.
Something about the eager way Fuller followed his wife into the dressing room set me on edge. I’d never met a man eager to play fashion show, and the quick way he convinced Holly to try on the dress made me suspicious.
“Change of plan. All units converge on the sixth floor, at the northeast dressing room. We’re taking the target down. Repeat, we’re taking the target down. Over.”
I hung my star around my neck and tugged out my .38, which was happy to be free of its claustrophobic holster.
Several patrons stared at me, mouths open. I warned them to stay back.
Two steps into the dressing room, I heard gurgling and grunting. A muffled scream. I followed the sounds, found the right door. Locked.
I kicked off my flats, planted my left foot, and snap-kicked the door at knob level, grunting with the force of my effort.
The jamb splintered. The door swung inward. My gun came up.
Fuller had Holly by the throat. He spun her around, in the path of my .38, and I jerked the shot high, firing at the ceiling.
I recovered quickly, leveling the gun, bringing my left hand up to steady it. Fuller’s massive forearm was locked around Holly’s throat. Her face was a mess of tears, mascara, and spit, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.
Fuller was smiling.
“Hello, Lieutenant.”
I aimed at his head.
“Drop her, Barry!”
“I don’t think so.”
His arm tightened. Holly went from red to purple.
My hands had begun to shake. I tightened my finger on the trigger.
“Dammit, Barry! We can work this out! Don’t make me shoot you!”
I heard Fuller’s shots a millisecond after I felt them, ripping through Holly’s belly and slamming into mine. It was like getting kicked in the stomach.
I fired on reflex, my slug winging Fuller in the forehead.
All three of us went down.
The dressing room was carpeted, and the floor felt plush under my back. Comfortable. I looked down at my belly and saw blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized my outfit was ruined, and that amused me for some reason.
To my left, lying less than two feet away, Holly Fuller stared at me. She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was blood.
“Don’t talk,” I told her.
She nodded, once. Then she closed one eye, and the other continued to stare at me as her life left her body.
Behind her, Fuller was laid out on his back. His head spurted blood with his heartbeat, and I saw bits of bone tangled in his hair. His right hand was clenched around a bloody semiautomatic.
“Die,” I whispered.
He didn’t.
I heard screams, and then Herb’s plump face was staring down at me, filled with anguish. I wanted to tell him not to be so sad, but I couldn’t get the words to form.
He pried the .38 from my hand, and touched my cheek.
“It’s going to be okay, Jack. It’s going to be okay.”
Not for Holly Fuller, I thought. And then it was getting too hard to keep my eyes open, so I went to sleep.
CHAPTER 22
When I woke up, Latham was holding my hand. He smiled at me.
“Hiya, sport. You got out of surgery an hour ago. Had two bullets removed from your abdominal wall.”
I looked around, took in all the standard hospital surroundings, and then went to sleep again.
The second time I awoke, Herb was there.
“Good morning, Jack. How you feeling?”
“Stomach hurts,” I said. Or tried to say. What came out was something that sounded like, “S’hurt.”
“I’ll have the doctor up your morphine.”
I shook my head and tried to say no.
“Thirsty?”
I nodded. Benedict poured me some water from a pitcher and held the glass. I took two sips, and two more sips dribbled down my face.
“Day?” I managed.
“Friday. You’ve been out about twenty-four hours.”
“Olly?”
Herb shook his head.
“Uller?”
“He’s in recovery. I’ll tell you more when you’re feeling better.”
“Ell me.”
“This is how we figured it—lemme know if it’s right. Fuller was holding Holly around the neck. Did you know he had a gun?”
I shook my head.
“He had it pressed to her back, and tried to shoot you through his wife. The slugs ripped through her and got lodged in your stomach muscles. I guess it pays to do sit-ups.”
I grunted. It wasn’t sit-ups. Holly’s body slowed them down, so they didn’t penetrate deep.
“Your round took off part of his head, above his right eye. Mostly skull. The docs picked bone splinters out of his brain for the better part of ten hours. Also, they found something else.”
“What?”
“Fuller had a brain tumor. About the size of a cherry. They removed that as well. He’s in stable condition.”
I mumbled for more water, and we did the slurping/spilling thing again. A small voice whispered to me that I should have shot Fuller immediately, before he had a chance to kill his wife.
“Latham should be back any minute. Went on a burrito run. All of these flowers are from him.”
Herb made a grand, sweeping gesture, and for the first time I noticed all of the bouquets surrounding the bed, replete with stuffed animals and Mylar balloons.
“He hasn’t left your side since you got here, Jack. He’s like Lassie.”
“Case?” I asked. I wasn’t up to talking about Latham.
“Airtight. We found a body in the back of Fuller’s truck. She’s wrapped in plastic, and his prints are all over her, not that it makes a difference at this point. The State’s Attorney is making a case for the two other women, Eileen Hutton and Davi McCormick, plus the Andrewses.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, yeah. You didn’t know. The dealer, and his mother. Both shot. Wit
nesses saw a large Caucasian man leaving the scene. Fuller was making so many mistakes, it’s almost like he wanted to be caught.”
I took a deep breath, smelling rubbing alcohol and iodine. My arm itched where the IV was jabbed in, and I scratched the skin above the hole. My stomach hurt; not from the inside, like an ulcer, but from the outside, as if someone had kicked me. I pulled down my sheet and pulled my hospital gown to the side. Herb carefully examined his shoes, while I poked and prodded at the large gauze bandage taped to my lower body.
The poking made me realize how badly I needed to go to the bathroom, and I managed to sit up and plant my feet on the floor. The tile was cold.
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.”
“I don’t know if you should.”
“You want to cup your hands and hold them next to my knees?”
Herb helped me into the bathroom.
When finished, I was a little dizzy, and held on to the sink until the room stopped twirling. The woman in the mirror looked like hell. Hair, a disaster. Face, scrubbed clean of makeup, letting age and exhaustion shine through. Pallor, not much better than one of Derrick Rushlo’s dates.
So when I stepped out of the bathroom, it was a given that my boyfriend would be standing there.
He was wearing a smile that could charitably be called dopey, and in his hands was yet another floral arrangement, this one blooming from a coffee mug with a rainbow on it.
“Hi, Jack. You look great.”
And I could tell that he meant it.
Maybe it was the drugs, or the pain, or the guilt, but I burst into tears right there. He held me, softly, so as not to hurt me. But I hugged him tight, with everything I had, not ever wanting to let go.
“I’m so happy you’re okay, Jack. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I love you.”
I sniffled, making a mess of his sport coat.
“I love you too, Latham. God, I love you too.”
CHAPTER 23
The hottest summer on record eventually fizzled out, easing into autumn’s first frost. One hundred and three degrees to thirty in three short months. It confirmed my belief that the Midwest would be much more hospitable if we moved it six hundred miles south.
It was a chilly Tuesday morning, and Mr. Friskers was clawing the hide off a pumpkin Latham had bought earlier in the week. The cat hadn’t exactly cozied up to me, but he didn’t attack me constantly either. It was more an uneasy alliance than a friendship, but I was grateful for his presence.
The twelve weeks had been tough.
I hadn’t been back to work yet, and even though I was in love with the most patient, decent, understanding man in the northern hemisphere, I felt like I was losing my mind.
“Want some milk, cat?”
Mr. Friskers halted his attack on the intruder gourd and squinted at me. I went to the fridge, found the 2 percent, and poured some into his bowl. He waited until I backed away before stuffing his face.
I yawned, and gave my head a quick shake, trying to dispel the drowsies. I’d fallen into the habit of taking a sleeping pill every night, and the grogginess took time to wear off.
I yawned again, wondered if I was hungry, and when I’d last eaten. Dinner, last night. Two bites of pizza, with Latham. The leftovers were in the fridge, but cold pizza didn’t sound like a good breakfast. I thought about making myself eggs, dismissed it as too difficult, and plodded back into the bedroom and onto the bed.
Picked up the remote. Put it back down. Picked it up again.
Mistake. Channel 5 was on, covering the prelims for the Fuller trial. I switched it off and stared at the ceiling, trying to stop the thoughts from coming.
They came anyway.
“I know,” I said aloud. “I should have pulled the trigger sooner.”
I would have loved to say I was talking to Holly Fuller. A large part of me wished that I would see her every time I closed my eyes, or dream about her whenever I nabbed a few precious winks.
But the truth was, I had a hard time remembering what she looked like. Her face had been replaced with my own.
I didn’t need a shrink degree to know what that meant. When Holly died, I not only disappointed her, but myself as well.
It’s tough being your own worst critic.
Someone knocked on my door, shave-and-a-haircut.
“Can you get that?” I yelled at the cat.
The cat didn’t respond, so I tied my bathrobe closed, forced myself out of bed, and padded to the door.
My mother smiled at me through the peephole.
“Mom!”
I couldn’t open the door fast enough. When I hugged her, I felt like a little girl again, even though I was four inches taller than she was. I buried my nose in her shoulder, smelling the same detergent she’s been using for forty years. She wore a fuzzy white turtleneck and some baggy jeans, and her right hand clenched the hook of an aluminum cane.
“Jacqueline, honey, it’s great to see you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“We wanted it to be a surprise.”
I blinked. “We?”
“Hello, Jack.”
The voice made me catch my breath. I stepped away from my mother, looking at the man next to her, holding a single red rose.
“Hello, Alan.”
My ex-husband smiled boyishly at me. The past ten years had been kind. He’d kept his hair, still thick and blond, and his waistline, still trim. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth than I remembered, but he looked almost exactly the same as he did the day he left me.
“Alan was kind enough to pick me up at the airport. We’ve been planning this for about two weeks.”
I cinched my robe tighter, and spoke to my mother while my eyes were on him.
“Mom, maybe you should have told me first.”
“Nonsense. You would have said no.”
“Mom . . .”
“You’re both adults, Jacqueline. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Now, are you going to invite us in, or are we going to have a reunion in your hallway?”
Alan raised his eyebrows at me, still smiling. I gave him my back and walked into my apartment.
“Do you have any coffee, Jacqueline?”
“I’ll make some.”
I entered the kitchen, lips pursed. Coffee used to be an important part of my day, but now that I lived without a schedule caffeine wasn’t necessary. I managed to remember how the machine worked, and got a pot going as Alan came in and leaned against the breakfast bar.
“Is this awkward?” he asked. He wore blue Dockers, a white button-down shirt, and a familiar faded brown bomber jacket.
“Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
I wanted to say something, to hurt him, but didn’t have the energy. Maybe after some coffee.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine. Okay. Good.”
“I heard you got shot again.”
“I wasn’t aware that you knew about the first time.”
“Your mother keeps me informed.”
I folded my arms. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ever since our divorce, Mary and I have been in touch.”
I snorted. “Bullshit.”
“Why is it bullshit? I always loved your mother.”
I had him there. “Since when did love stop you from leaving?”
Alan nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Jacqueline!” my mother called from the living room. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat!”
“Mom, don’t!”
I rushed past Alan, hoping to prevent the maiming, and was shocked to see Mom cradling Mr. Friskers in her arms and stroking his head.
“He’s adorable. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Friskers.”
“Oh. Well, he’s adorable anyway.”
“You should put him down, Mom. He doesn’t like
people very much.”
“Nonsense. He seems to like me just fine.”
“Then why is he growling at you?”
“That’s not growling, Jacqueline. That’s purring.”
Son of a gun. Damn cat never purred for me. Not once.
My mother made a show of looking around the apartment. She tapped her knuckles on a large cardboard box. “What’s with all the packing, dear? Putting some things into storage?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t yet told my mother about moving in with Latham.
“Good. I’ll need the room.”
She beamed at me, so full of strength and life, so unlike the woman I saw in the hospital bed months before.
I tried to sound upbeat. “You’ve decided to move in?”
“Yes, I have. I know I’ve threatened to disown you whenever you brought it up, but I came to a different conclusion. I don’t believe I need you to look after me, but I don’t have too many years left, and I’d like to spend them in the company of my daughter.”
I smiled, wondering how real it looked. I’d given up trying to bully my mother into living with me, which is why I finally relented with Latham.
He would be crushed.
And, truth be told, I was crushed too.
“I have a buyer for the condo in Florida. I brought some papers for you to sign.”
“Great.”
“I should be ready to move in next week.”
“Great.”
Mom set down the cat and hobbled up to me, putting a wrinkled hand on my cheek.
“We’ll talk more later, dear. We caught an early flight and I’m exhausted. Do you mind if I take a short nap here on the couch?”
“Use my bed, Mom.”
At least someone would be using it. For something.
“Go grab something to eat with Alan. I know you have a lot of catching up to do.”
She gave my face a tender pat and limped into the bedroom.
Alan stood by the window, hands in his pockets.
“Are you up for breakfast?” he asked.
“No.”
“Would you like me to go?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking anything for depression?”
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