by Kim Karr
Work at The Detroit Scene had been demanding, so I hadn’t spent as much time going through the boxes as I would have liked.
Time no longer the issue, I begin searching for the names of people who investigated the plant explosion. I try not to look at my phone while I’m performing this tedious search. I try not to wonder why my phone is not ringing as I open file after file until I find what I’m looking for. It doesn’t take long before I’m lost in my work. Having jotted down the name of the fire marshal at the time, as well as who the DA and the police commissioner were, I go in search of finding where they are now. The Internet offers an avalanche of information and by noon I know the police commissioner of twenty years past has moved to California, but I’m unable to find anything further about him. I also know Harold Klein was the DA back then, but he has passed away. And finally I learn that the fire marshal recently retired and now lives in Florida, but has an unlisted phone number. A big fat zero is what I have.
Soon enough I find myself doing something I know I absolutely should not be doing—logging into Cole’s email. My email account at The Detroit Scene has been disabled but I’m still able to log in as him. He has yet to change his password. Probably doesn’t think someone with as naïve a skin as mine would ever do anything like that, or he simply just forgot.
Once there, I notice that all three messages from Eve are still in bold font—Cole has yet to read them, or any of his recent emails for that matter. Either too busy, not at work yet, or maybe really distraught over Eve’s death. Then again, for the last two months he has depended on me to read his emails, print them out for him, and let him know when he needed to log in. So it probably totally slipped his mind.
Nervously, I open the first email. It is date-stamped 8:15 p.m. last Friday. She was still in the hotel room with me then. I start to read it. Immediately, I want to close out of it, but I don’t. Eve starts the message by addressing Cole as sir. My best guess is it’s meant to be some sort of dominant/submissive acknowledgment and not a courtesy.
They were still playing sex games.
Eve’s first line only confirms what I had suspected about why we were staying in the hotel, and she sounds angry that Cole was unable to be there that night.
I know for a fact that he had to go drop his wife and kids off at their lake house more than two hours away on Friday night and was planning on returning to Detroit early Saturday morning for the groundbreaking ceremony.
Moving on, she tells him she’s going to be very bad and will gladly accept whatever punishment he feels he must deliver to her for disobeying him. However, breaking their rules is necessary.
Rules?
What were their rules?
The dirty talk must have progressed to more.
Finally, she closes with a statement that rocks me. She tells him she is not suspending the exposé, but rather is going in search of the material needed to finish it.
Exposé?
Had Cole planned to print negative information about Jasper?
Was that the story she asked him for in the personal email of his that I had previously read? It had to be! And he must have given it to her, which is why their relationship had progressed.
The exposé had to be what Eve was talking about to me that night. And then I can only assume that even though Cole killed the story, she planned to write it and post it despite the fact that she had been told not to. Perhaps she didn’t know Cole was being paid for his services, or knowing Eve, she probably didn’t care. She seemed to have her own vendetta, and as petty as it seemed to me, she was obviously driven by it.
Moving on to the second email, I read it fairly quickly. This one contains the pictures of Jasper’s mother’s house and a short dictation of the conversation Eve had with Mrs. Storm. Surprisingly, it is the same information she relayed to me. There is no closing to her email. She was simply pushing information his way.
Finally, I open the last one. It is time-stamped 2:45 a.m. on Saturday. The message reads, “This is what you missed out on tonight.”
When the attachment loads, I gasp. It is a picture of Eve naked and tied up. Although his face is turned away from the camera, I can tell by the hair color that Jasper is lying in the bed beside her. There are also some empty packets of what I assume are cocaine on the table beside the bed.
This picture could ruin him. Wreck any chance he might have of obtaining financial backing for the plant.
Without thought or recourse, I delete the message and return the other two messages to an unread status.
And then I close my laptop.
Monday ends without a call from the police and without a call from Jasper. When I finally start to fall asleep, I tell myself that I know tomorrow he’ll call me.
After all he promised.
Tuesday comes and I wake in a fit of hysteria. Cole said he saw Eve later that night. Was it after that message? I know he never saw it, but did she tell him about it when she saw him? Was he mad? Mad enough to kill her?
Oh, God, maybe I shouldn’t have deleted it. What if that was the motive behind her murder? No, it can’t be, because why bury her at the plant when he had just gotten the biggest account of his life? It doesn’t make sense.
I vow to forget about the photo and then get up to attack my list.
Today I’m going to go to the storage unit to see what box I had taken items from before I went to the hotel on Friday. Having left the office late on Friday, I’d only had time to make a quick stop and just grabbed a stack of papers without paying too much attention. I knew I’d have some free time and thought I could go through them. I want to know what I’m missing before I bring Eve’s things to the police station.
Before I even get out of bed I’m thinking of Jasper again. No, not again, still. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s lost my number, but that’s impossible since he programmed it into his phone before he drove me home the other night. Pushing thoughts of Jasper aside, I refuse to give in to the need coiling in my belly.
Instead, I embrace the energy I’m feeling and go for a run to clear my head. The streets are filled with noise, construction workers, cars, and buses. The People Mover is full. Men in suits. Women too. Everyone on his or her way to work. Everyone but me.
A quick glance at my fitness watch tells me I’ve clocked three miles and in decent time, too. Two more to go; maybe I can hit an all-time record for speed. Running faster, and faster still, my feet pound the pavement trying to rid those feelings of desire that only seem to be growing with each passing day.
Just as I turn the corner, a newspaper dispenser stops me in my tracks. Today’s headline reads, “Detroit’s White Knight Brought in for Questioning.”
Bending, I squint to read the first paragraph. “Late last night, Jasper Storm was officially brought in for questioning concerning the woman found dead at the old Laneworth Automotive Parts Plant this past Saturday. Details are still unknown.”
My heart stutters. Jasper. He must be going through hell. Quickly, I head back to my apartment, all thoughts of breaking records long forgotten.
Once I’ve showered, I hover over my phone.
Call him.
Don’t call him.
Call him.
Don’t call him.
Unable to decide, I settle on thinking about it for now.
Still, I need to know what is going on.
I can watch the news.
Technically, I didn’t promise I wouldn’t do that, and my concern for him is driving me to need to know the details.
What comes out can’t possibly be any worse than what I already know.
Coffee in hand, I pad over to the credenza where I keep the television remote and open the top drawer. Alarm prickles my skin when I notice someone has rifled through it.
Setting my cup down, I run over to my desk and open those drawers. They are all in disarray too. Swinging open the closet next to my desk where I keep all of my research documents, my knees start to shake and I have to sit down. Someone ha
s definitely been in here looking through my things. I can’t imagine the plumber would have been interested in any more than what was in my underwear drawers and medicine cabinet.
So who?
And why?
My breath comes faster and I have to force myself to calm down. Inhaling, I blow out and push a piece of stray hair from my eyes. Out of fear, I look around. Has someone been in here recently or is this from when I was gone overnight at the hotel?
Grabbing a kitchen knife, my finger hovering over the 911 button, I carefully open the other closet door in the living space, and then move to my bedroom. I was in the bathroom, so I know that is clear. Looking under my bed, I know for certain no one is here now.
Trembling, I’m uncertain of what to do. Call the police? And tell them what? Someone has been in here and I don’t know when, I don’t know why, and I don’t know what he or she was looking for?
What I do know is that this has to be related to Eve.
Yes, I should call the police. And I would call them if I thought they’d help me, but as soon as I tell them who I am, I know they’ll see me as a victim.
Instead, I think about calling Jasper, but he has enough on his mind. Then I think about calling Cole to see if anyone else at work has had his or her apartment broken into, but I know better. He probably wouldn’t take my call anyway. I could call Vince, though. He works at The Detroit Scene and was always nice to me. Maybe he knows something. I make the call and leave him a message.
I’m scared and keep the knife at my side.
Two minutes ticks by, and that’s all it takes for me to decide I need to call the police.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Instinctively, I already know who’s on the other side of the door, and I’m more than thankful. After moving the knife back to the kitchen, I peer through the peephole. Detective Hill is standing right in the center of it.
Both welcoming and abhorring the intrusion, I swing open the door.
“Miss Lane,” he says with a nod.
“Detective,” I greet him back.
He hands me a piece of paper and I already know what it is. “This is a warrant to search the premise as it relates to the Eve Hepburn murder case.”
I swallow. Murder case. The words somehow seem so much more powerful said that way.
I’m physically shaking when I say, “Come in.”
He allows the two police officers to pass and then steps inside. The two officers separate. One goes toward my room; the other strides toward my desk and closets where I had just been standing moments ago. The detective looks at me. “I believe you already know the drill.”
Shrouded with unease, I nod my head. “Detective, can I talk to you about something possibly related to Eve’s murder?”
The officer outside my room shouts, “This is it, just the two rooms and one bathroom. I’ll start in here.”
The other officer looks down the hall. “I’ll take the kitchen and living space.”
“You were saying, Miss Lane?” Detective Hill directs his attention back to me.
I blurt out, “Someone has broken into my apartment.”
Casually, he walks over to the door, opens it, and inspects the lock. “There is no evidence of forced entry.”
“Somehow, someone got in here.”
He walks over to the sofa, leans over it, and checks the window. “You keep this locked?”
I nod.
“And all your windows?”
I nod again.
Doubt crosses his face. “Anyone else have a key?”
“Just the super, but it wasn’t him. Someone was looking for something.”
He raises a brow.
“Let me show you.”
I start in my bedroom and show him my drawers, and then I lead him back into the living room and show him what I recently discovered.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you report it when you first discovered the violation?”
“At first I thought it was the plumber the building superintendent sent to do repairs, but I’m not sure that’s the case any longer. I think someone’s been in here looking for something.”
“Any idea what someone might be looking for?”
“No. The only thing that makes sense is that it is somehow related to Eve.”
The detective seems to ponder this. “Officer Zimmer,” he calls to the male in the kitchen.
The tall, husky officer looks over just as the female officer enters the room, reporting, “Nothing.”
“Dust this area for fingerprints. The bedroom dresser as well,” Detective Hill tells them.
“I’m on it,” she says. “I’ll grab the kit.”
The other officer continues searching and when they see the bag of Eve’s things on my couch, they look inside without really paying any attention.
Thirty minutes pass as the two officers dust for fingerprints and finish searching the apartment. They find nothing. There is nothing to find.
Afterward, the officers leave and it’s just Detective Hill and myself. “I have to notify you that although we didn’t find anything, you are still a person of interest.”
A shiver passes through me. “May I ask why I’m a person of interest?”
“There was mud found on your boots in the hotel room search.”
“I already told you my car broke down. I was out in the mud trying to fix it.”
“I know what you told me, and soil samples will be examined. If I have to call you down to the station, you might want to have a lawyer present.”
I have to fight every cell in my body to stop from breaking down.
I have no money.
There is no way I can afford an attorney.
Getting an attorney sounded like a good plan in my mind the night Eve’s body was found, but that was before the reality of losing my job had sunk in. Now I’m faced with the real possibility that I might end up homeless.
No need to burden the detective with that information; he wouldn’t care anyway.
When he leaves, he advises me to have my locks changed and to call the police if I have the slightest indication that someone has managed to get back in.
I intentionally neglect to tell him about the things that I have in my possession from the hotel room that belonged to Eve. I haven’t cataloged them yet and don’t want to just hand them over. I will go through them today, right after I call a locksmith.
“Oh, Miss Lane,” he says as I’m closing my door.
My pulse starts to race as if he’s read my mind.
“The lock downstairs is broken. You should advise your superintendent to have it fixed as quickly as possible.”
“I will,” I tell him and close the door.
Slumping back against the cold metal, I fight off the tears that threaten to spill. I have too much to do to spend time crying.
And I set to it.
When I awake on Wednesday morning it’s raining, and any energy I might have had over the past two days seems to have vanished with the sunshine. Raindrops cling to the window like tears, and I roll over and go back to bed.
My phone ringing wakes me, and when I look at the screen I can see it’s the automotive garage. Once the message light has beeped, I listen to it. The deep voice tells me that I have until Friday to agree to the repairs or I’ll have to have my car towed elsewhere.
Sighing, I decide not to bother with a return call. I can’t afford to have the car repaired right now. And I have nowhere to store it. Hopefully, he’ll hold on to it until I can get the cash together regardless of what he said.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s noon and I should get up. Yesterday after my locks were changed I walked over to the Bronx Bar to inquire about available positions. The owner hired me on the spot. I start tonight. It’s temporary and if I work nights, I can still spend my days look
ing for a job in journalism and researching my father’s theory. So far all of the companies I’ve submitted résumés to have responded with the standard, “We are not hiring at this time.” Even the ones I answered that had posted ads.
Either Cole, my former boss, has more pull in town than I thought and has blacklisted me or my family name has made me persona non grata. Either way, I’m not leaving Detroit until I do what I came here for.
With that said, today I’ll take the People Mover to the police station and hope to exchange Eve’s possessions for mine. The only item of interest I found in her things was a notebook with a page inside it titled, “Jasper Storm—the Tarnished King.”
It must have been her hook for her blog post. There was no text beneath it. Still, I took photos and made a list of everything even though nothing else seemed significant.
Nothing worth killing someone over, anyway.
The urban police station is dingy, with yellow-stained drop ceilings and tiny barred windows. To enter the building I have to go through security.
The officer behind the desk, a mountain of a man, glares at me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Detective John Hill.”
“You want to see Sergeant Detective John Hill?” he asks, clarifying the detective’s proper title.
I nod. I guess I’d been addressing him improperly. Perhaps that was the cause of his obvious dislike for me? No. Who am I kidding? It’s my last name.
“Ha, good luck with that. Who should I tell him is here?”
“Charlotte Lane.”
Instantly, his good humor disappears and with a frown he presses a button and mumbles something into the receiver he picked up moments ago. “Have a seat,” he tells me when he’s finished, pointing to a bunch of plastic chairs secured to the floor over in the corner.
Time passes slowly. Almost an hour goes by before Sergeant Detective Hill finally appears at the other end of the lobby. “Miss Lane, how can I help you?”
With my hotel bag gripped tight in my hand and my palm a sweaty mess, I raise my arm. “Somehow my things must have gotten mixed up with Eve’s things. These are her papers and photos. I’ve brought these for you and I’d like to get my own research documents back if possible.”